Friday, October 1, 2010

Arm Chair Psychologists

My favorite part about the Gorums.

Someone writes something about a topic. Maybe the opinion is controversial, maybe it's not. The funny thing about the Gorums is that people have to read into the statement and infer something about the psychological state of the speaker, instead of taking the comments at face value.

So if someone writes something about the profound joy in slavery, they must be psychologically deluded that comes from some deep traumatic incident in their former love life. Or if someone wants to write about the thrill of dominating a woman, the people must respond that such a sensation only occurs because of some deep seated mommy issues that manifest themselves into gruesome rape fantasies.

It's so utterly bizarre. For instance, I posted two parody pieces on the Gorums- and the automatic reaction is to parse and dissect the meanings behind the parody pieces: what was my motivation for writing them and what am I trying to critique about the larger community? People can't just accept funny things at face value. No, no- they have to dissect and infer all this crap that might or might not be there.

The funny thing, to me anyway, is how terrible they are in the psychological analysis though. Most psychological analysis requires an analytical approach: define the action, attribute to its source, determine what the motivation behind that action is, decide whether the outcome of that action is good or not, connect the outcome of the action with its motivation, and finally explore numerous solutions that provide the best motivation with the best outcome. But it's important to note that each step is seperate from the one previous. You must first define the action and THEN decide whether it's good or bad. You cannot define an action as good or bad.

So...you notice a person is binge eating a lot. That is the action. It is neither good nor bad. Binge eating can be a good thing for someone who is on the verge of starvation and desperately needs calories. Binge eating is a bad thing when a normally healthy person uses it as a device to eventually purge and lose weight. This is why action and motivation are diagnosed as two separate actions. The context changes the meaning.

However, on the Gorums, the prudent diagnosis is to define the action with its motivation: "people that are femlaws are retarded monkeys who have never read a book and ruin Gor." Essentially, being an armchair psychologist on the Gorums means to assume a million and ten things about the statement being analyzed (of which, none are true) and then to slap a meaningless label on the assumptions in order to validate their criticism. To wit, the label femlaw is created as a means to insult people who choose a different play style than others.

It's one thing to be an armchair psychologist and try to break down a series of decisions into its component parts and then analyze the decisionmaking. It's quite another thing to mash all the parts together and slap a label on the whole process. The former is a method that leads towards understanding. The second is just childish and gossip mongering.

I think this is why a lot of people on the Gorums are fundamentally unhappy when they roleplay (well, they either say or imply that they are- it's equally as plausible they're lying just to gain sympathy). They have accumulated this base of knowledge thanks to the groupthink mentality that is perpetrated on the boards (i.e., the more knowledge you acquire, the better rper you become- which isn't true, but it's the myth they like to believe). And then when they try to apply that groupthink into their roleplay lives, they are surprised to discover that no one thinks like them. It's the equivalent of the D&D dorks in elementary school deciding amongst themselves what it means to be cool (creating a high level character, naturally) and then being surprised when they get beat up constantly for showing off their "coolness."

Of course, on the Gorums, it's common knowledge that THEY'RE the cool kids and everyone else is a retard. And you can't dissuade them otherwise because they have a PhD in arm chair psychology at Gorums Grad School.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Diary of a RL Gorean

Another thing I did a while ago...

* * *

A day in the life of a RL Gorean, on this 8th day of the 12th month of the Uurth Calendar 2007.

I woke this morning and grumpily slid off my comfortable warm bearskin fur. Only a few days before, I was informed that my new slave, formerly named Thena Claxton now known as Vella (as I adhere to the strict Gorean ways, I am only allowed to use names contained within the books and cannot think for myself), recently was expelled from the kajirae training academy I sent her to in the Southern lands. Disappointed, I had mulled my options for the past few days as I arranged her transport back to my authentically Gorean home. As I dined on my breakfast of stale Wonderbread (the closest Uurth equivalent I could find to sa-tarna grain) and Tang (which I surmise would how larma juice would taste like), I decided that I would give my Vella the option of free companionship or death.

After a few ahn, I heard a timid knock on my very Gorean oak door. I opened it up, and saw my disgraced kajira, her silks all frumpled- looking quite despondent.
I commanded her, "my Vella- you have two choices: become my Free Companion...or die." Inexplicably, she looked at me and asked in a mournful voice, "Master, this one chooses to take the physical challenge." I sighed to myself and chose for her as I am RL Gorean and godmod everything in my life, "you are my Free Companion now. It is done, you have your name back Thena Claxton Dovgal. Look, you're even wearing proper FW Gorean clothing now." Such is my command of Gor and its ways- it was true. She was wearing an elegant FW dress.

I desired to travel so I instructed my FC to prepare on a journey. Walking by foot can be tiresome, so Thena and I made our way to the Wagon People of Mazda. I had heard many great things about these people and their commitment to the Gorean ways. I approached one of the Wagon people but did not know his name. Luckily, I am RL Gorean and thus only interact by reading tags- his name tag identified him as Jim. I talked with Jim for a little while, before we agreed on a sale of one of his wagons, made by a Master Builder named Station. I asked Jim if Master Builder Station operated his shop outside of Thentis or Port Kar. Jim told me that my wagon was not built in Japan, but in the land of Ohio. Though I had never heard of such a place, I could only assume it was located somewhere within the Plains of Turia. My FC and I climbed inside our Station Wagon. I did not know how to operate, but Lady Thena indicated she learned to operate one at the academy. Though I am Gorean in all ways, I reluctantly allowed her to operate the wagon.

Within moments, Lady Thena had navigated our way through the perlious streets of RL Gor and we found ourselves passing a place with an identification sign "K-Mart." Being RL Gorean, I clapped my hands an commanded my FC, "Halt, my intended. There is the marketplace of Port Kar and I wish to rest and drink!" Lady Thena looked at me as if I had just farted (the smelly kind), and nodded slowly, "yes, my Lord. Right away." Within seconds, I alighted from our Wagon of the Station and wrote a note on a piece of parchment I brought, intending to send it to my dear friend Tarl, Ambassador of Port Kar. I looked around for a messenger bird as there are always several hundred randomly flying around the skies, waiting to be plucked from the air- yet I found none. I frowned and whistled for my tarn, sure that it would hear me and send my message...yet after waiting for many ehn, my tarn did not come. I looked up into the sky and thought perhaps the Priest Kings were punishing me for purchasing such a fine wagon and decided to enter the city unannounced, Lady Thena in tow.

As we found the entrance, I growled at Lady Thena, "greet, my intended or I shall place you back in my collar. My FC should have proper manners." Lady Thena nodded quickly and began to greet the mass of people one at a time with a "Tal Sir" here and a "Tal Lady" there. Here a "Tal Sir," there a "Tal Sir," everywhere a "Tal Lady." Needless to say, within 45 seconds, Lady Thena lost the faculties of her voice and was no longer able speak. I frowned at her as I am RL Gorean, commenting, "what did they teach you at Academy? You have displeased me, my intended." I pulled her by the shoulder and led her inside the magical gates of what could only be the market of Port Kar- what else could K-Mart stand for?

As we entered, a lady with a curious red frock waved at us and cheerfully announced, "Greetings travelers!" I looked at her with some disdain before responding, "Tal..." I looked at her tag, "...tal Carla. What is your purpose here in Port Kar?" Carla looked at me with some surprise- perhaps she had never seen a true Gorean male and instinctively knew her place was at my feet- and answered, "oh hun, I'm the K-Mart greeter!" I nodded and held out my hand, "then pass me the laws of your realm, Lady. I desire to act according to the laws as written by your Ubar." Carla looked at me astonished- I mused to myself perhaps the Ubar had fallen in combat- and asked me, "oh, do you want Customer Service to get warranty information?" I began getting angry- a woman talking back to a RL Gorean??!!! I reached into my pockets and withdrew a collar, snarling at her, "unless you wish to be locked in my steel, I wish an audience with your Ubar...NOW!" Carla stared at me dumbfounded- I knew by the way she looked (because I was RL Gorean), that she viewed the collar with longing. She turned to another lady in a red frock and asked her, "Hey, Chantelle darlin'- do you know if there's an Ubar working down in jewelry or customer service? I think this guy wants to return that bracelet." Chantelle looked at the collar in my hand and remarked, "DAAAAMNN son. That's one crunk-ass lookin' bracelet. Yo lady must've dun sumthin' off da hook to get dat! But nah, Omar be working down in Electronics today." Carla nodded in understanding and relayed the information to me, "oh I'm sorry hun, but Omar's not working in Customer Service. But Chantelle here could probably help you out." I scoffed at her, "a woman holding council with me, a RL Gorean?!! I once thought Port Kar was a glorious Gorean city, but spare me your Disney ways, foul wench." Carla shook her head and exclaimed, "OH! Disney toys are Aisle 8 in the back, sweetheart. Have a fine day shopping at K-Mart!"

I grumbled to myself and grabbed my voiceless FC and headed to the nearby tavern of this once-great city of Port Kar, though it was called a name I did not feel was Gorean- McDonalds? "Come, Lady Thena- I shall get a drink here." I stood at the entrance of this tavern and waited for a tavern slut to approach me and offer me service. Seeing that there was none in sight, I approached a man I believed to be the tavernkeeper, "Tavernkeeper, I require the services of your finest slut." The man stared back at me and replied cooly, "watch your mouth, Sir. Approach the counter and any of of my staff will be willing to help you." I considered drawing my sword and challenging him to an honor duel right then and there, but having not yet read the laws of this realm, I decided to use caution and heed his advice, "very well, Sir. But speak to a RL Gorean like that again, and you will taste the steel of my blade!" I thought the man rolled his eyes at me, but if he did- it was because he feared a RL Gorean. I approached the counter, and reading the tag again, was served by a wench wearing the most bizarre silks and was given a peculiar slave name of "Juanita." I looked directly at this Juanita and announced my order, "greetings, wench. I wish for cold sul paga and a plate of verr cheese and sa-tarna bread." Juanita looked at me and asked, "Que?" I growled at her and banged my fist on the counter, "I do NOT repeat myself, wench! Paga and cheese now!" She looked at me again with bewilderment and asked, "Quarter Pounder with Cheese? Would you like supersize?" I sighed and retrieved the collar once more, "Nay, I do not want your disney foods. Sul paga now!" Clearly, this was a slut in training as she asked again, "Quieres numero cinco? With Sprite?" Angrily, I spit on the ground, opened the collar and tried shoving it around her neck...except, the collar wouldn't fit around her neck. I furrowed my brow in frustration as I tried to force the collar around the slut's neck...but it wouldn't fit? What was happening? In the books, a woman could fit into any collar, but here- this woman's neck was too big for the collar I purchased? I howled, "this is so INVALID. You are CHEATING!" Juanita jumped back in fright at my actions and began screaming at the top of her lungs, "POLICIA, POLICIA!!!" I reached for the dagger at my hilt, preparing for combat- a RL Gorean does not fear a fight. However, Lady Thena had other ideas and ran like her dress was on fire and left the building. Deciding my FC was more important than a fight with a bunch of Disney, invalid Guards of Port Kar, I decided to leave myself.

Now, I am back at home pagaless, slutless and in search of my tarn...I keep whistling but it never comes. Well, I shall sleep well in my furs tonight and prepare for another day, as I am RL Gorean...

A Day in the Life of a Goron...

Something I did a while ago...

* * *

The names have been changed to protected the criminally uncreative:

[16:59] Arrival: Aashe Dovgal
[16:59] Object: Aashe Dovgal, Welcome to Port Gor! Please read the rules before continuing your journey
[17:00] Aashe Dovgal steps off the gangplank of the arriving boat and scans the dock area- looking for the exit and path towards the city.
[17:01] Panther LeBored: Tal MALE
[17:02] Aashe Dovgal looks down between his legs and adjusts his trousers to ensure everything is, indeed, in place. He looks back to the panther and replies, "Thanks for noticing."
[17:02] Panther LeBored: That was an insult, MALE! *growls*
[17:03] You: it's only an insult if I'm embarrassed about being male, and I'm pretty well hung so I consider it a compliment. Thanks.
[17:04] Panther LeBored: you would look good in a collar, MALE *smirks*
[17:06] Aashe Dovgal untucks the book from underneath the crook of his arm and places the thesaurus in the panther's palm. He leans towards her, clasping her fingers tightly around the leather bindings and instructs her, "learn to read, finish this book cover to cover so you can expand your vocabulary of insults and get back to me. THEN, I might submit."
[17:06] Aashe Dovgal steps off the docks and briskly walks toward the city gates.

//IMs:
[17:07] Panther LeBored: HEEEEY!!!!!
[17:07] Panther LeBored: Too bad, you look pretty hot *waggles eyebrows*
[17:08] Aashe Dovgal continues walking into the city.
[17:08] Panther LeBored: Your loss. I'll have you know, I'm quite good in the furs.
[17:08] You: I'm better.
[17:10] Panther LeBored: Capture me sometime, ok?
//

[17:08] Aashe Dovgal arrives at the city gates. Seeing them closed, he rings the bell outside the gates to call for a Guard
[17:09] Carl Clueless: Tal stranger. Name and homestone.
[17:09] You: My name is Mickey from Rovecardophronagaard. I'm here to see Full O'Himself, the Ubar.
[17:09] Carl Clueless: Oh.
[17:12] Aashe Dovgal twiddles his thumbs, looking at the motionless Warrior. He claps his hands loudly to see if the man is still alive...and it appears he is not since there is no reaction.
[17:16] Aashe Dovgal watches a bird swoop down inside the Guard's trousers and tear off the man's penis to deliver it to his kajira. Aashe isn't sure whether he should gasp in horror at the sight or applaud the bird for its immense talent. While thinking about this, he notices Sally Scribe open the gate and walk inside the city...so he quickly follows her.


[17:18] Slave1 whispers to sissy- "girl is SO bored!" ~giggles~
[17:20] Aashe Dovgal arrives at the tavern. He leans against the doorway for a moment and eyes the two slaves gossiping amongst one another while he waits for them to greet him.
[17:20] Slave1: Greetings Master
[17:20] Slave2: greetings Master
[17:20] You: Greetings girls
[17:21] Slave1: May girl serve you, Master?
[17:22] You: As a matter of fact, you can. I see that the kajira that served a man over in that corner earlier today didn't swallow. Go clean it up since I really don't want to look at it any longer.
[17:22] Slave1: Master?
[17:22] You: Yes? Was I unclear?
[17:24] Slave1: No Master. May girl be excused? Her Master is calling.
[17:25] Aashe Dovgal turns to his left and begins emphatically shaking the air next to him. "Tal, Sir! Is this your kajira? It is?! She's very well suited for you- takes right after you. Why do I say that? She's about as vapid as you are and her head is similar to yours. Yes, that's right- full of air. I'm glad you found a perfect match, it IS hard to find a girl that matches your personality, but you did well. Great find, Sir...enjoy your time with her."
[17:26] You: You may go with your Master, girl. He's been kind enough to pick you up. Heel to him and leave.

//In IMs
[17:26] Slave1: YOU JACKASS!! I'll have you know my Master DID IM and told me to go shopping for silks. And he's my Master, you're not, so I listen to him first. ALWAYS! Piss off!
[17:27] You: Oh, I didn't know that. Let me IM him to apologize...
[17:27] You: what a pity- he seems to have crashed. He is offline at the moment
[17:28] Slave1: YOU ASS! It is people like you that ruin Gor. Why don't you just leave and take your stupid ass out of here and never come back!
[17:28] Slave1: I'm best friends with the admin and I'm going to have him BAN YOUR ASS. How do you like that now, jerk?
[17:29] You: When your Master comes back online, please have him IM me so I can loan him the money to buy you a new tiara. Until then, goodbye.
//

[17:28] Aashe Dovgal looks at Slave2 and remarks, "and are you too afraid to serve me as well?"
[17:29] Slave2: Oh no, Master! How may this tavern slut serve you?
[17:29] You: Wait, you're a tavern slut?
[17:30] Slave2: Yes, Master. Are you not pleased with me?
[17:30] You: No, it's not that. It's just that I expected a tavern slut to act, you know...slutty. I didn't know tavern sluts acted like boulders.
[17:31] Slave2: Oh. *thinks hard* What would Master like me to do?
[17:31] You: um, act sluttier?
[17:32] Slave2: Yes, Master. And how would you like me to act sluttier?
[17:33] You: You know, all these questions really don't help. Do you normally get furred, girl?
[17:33] Slave2: No Master.
[17:34] You: How shocking.
[17:35] Slave2: Perhaps if I danced for you Master? Would you like that?
[17:37] Aashe Dovgal strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment and looks back at the girl, "That would be fine. However, I do not want to see your ruby red lips, your emerald orbs, I don't want to notice your pillowy breasts, juicy ass or sun kissed thighs. If you mention any of these things, I'll simply leave. Is that clear?"
[17:38] Slave2: I don't understand, Master. What am I supposed to do?

//In IMs
[17:38] Slave2: Master, what have I done wrong? PLEASE tell me!
[17:39] You: hmm?
[17:39] Slave2: Master, please tell me what you want.
[17:40] You: I want to see your creativity and personality through your roleplay.
[17:41] Slave2: And how should I do that, Master?
[17:42] You: Um...I think I hear my Master calling. Got to leave. Goodbye.
//

[17:43] Aashe Dovgal strolls through the town square and happens upon a shirtless man clad in black, standing next to a rather voluptuous female adorned in an elegant purple gown. He stops a few feet behind them and thrusts his hands in his pocket, keeping a safe distance not to disturb them, but orients his body towards the pair to indicate that he wishes to join in conversation.
[17:44] Carla Collarbait: Tal Sir
[17:44] Badass Dudeface: Tal Bro
[17:45] You: Tal. Please continue, I don't mean to interrupt.
[17:49] You: Seriously, please keep talking. Pretend I'm not here. I'm just catching the sights of the city. Look, I'll even move away some.
[17:53] You: Um, well. I guess I'll talk. This is a pretty nice city. Do you know if finches fly this far north during the springtime?
[17:55] Badass Dudeface: Carla, you'd look soooo good in my collar. I bet you're a total slut!
[17:56] Carla Collarbait: OH Sir! Please! I am a FW!
[17:57] Badass Dudeface: HAHAHAHAHAHA
[17:57] You: so that's a no on the finches?
[17:58] Carla Collarbait: Hmmph, even if I DID submit to you, you'd just ignore me anyway...
[17:59] Badass Dudeface: Shut up, slut! Kneel to me now! HAHAHAHA
[17:59] Badass Dudeface: LMAO
[18:00] Aashe Dovgal points up the sky and continues babbling, "so like...there are birds in the sky. They flap their wings. Some of them even deliver messages, I hear. Yeah, birds. There's a type of bird called finches. I hear they migrate."
[18:01] Carla Collarbait: I will NOT kneel. Anyway, I think Full O'Himself, the Ubar, is totally into me. He smiled at me yesterday. And don't forget Paul Pwnface, the First Sword. Oh if he saw that YOU collared me, would he get upset! So I don't think you can collar me.
[18:02] Carla Collarbait: And if you want to collar me so much, you'll have to catch me. *Runs*
[18:03] Badass Dudeface: oh shit lol
[18:03] Badass Dudeface: draw bow
[18:04] Aashe Dovgal rocks back and forth on his heels as he continues to stare up at the sky, pretending to be oblivious to what just happened, "Finches. Birds. Pretty. Spring. Yeah..." He smacks his lips together, creating a loud popping sound and surveys the city. Seeing nothing of interest, he decides to leave and light himself on fire when he gets home.

[18:10] Carl Clueless: HEY!!!
[18:12] You: Yes? Nice city you have.
[18:13] Carl Clueless: Name and homestone, stranger.
[18:13] You: Oh, I was just leaving- so...it's not even important.
[18:14] Carl Clueless: I SAID name and homestone, stranger. Do not test me or I will cap your ass.
[18:15] You: Seriously, I'm leaving so don't even worry about it.
[18:16] Carl Clueless: Last warning, stranger. And if you want to enter the city, leave your weapons by the gate.
[18:17] You: I really don't want to enter the city, so I'm taking my weapons and homestone with me.
[18:18] Aashe Dovgal leans down and picks up a pebble from the ground and rubs it reverently, pretending it was a precious homestone.
[18:19] Carl Clueless shouts: WARRIORS, ALERT!! AASHE DOVGAL HAS STOLEN OUR HOMESTONE! KILL HIM!!!

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Starter Kit

I was having a conversation with a friend on what people need to know before they start roleplaying in Gor. She insisted that reading of the books is mandatory since that's the only way to properly understand the environment. As always, I call bullshit. Not only is the source text impenetrable (read: boring), but many people don't have fabulous reading comprehension. One person can read the books and decide that slavery is inherently romantic and erotic. Another can read the same text and conclude that slavery is dreary, extremely depressing and completely hopeless. These are diametrically opposed viewpoints and are both plausible interpretations (I tend to fall into the second camp, but there's no denying that the concept of slavery as portrayed by the books is hopelessly optimistic).

So, this begs the question: what materials would I suggest a noob read/look into before learning Gor?

Well, here's my suggested source material for someone learning how to be a warrior:

Goodfellas: The caste system works essentially like a mafia organization. So long as you pledge loyalty to your caste and follow the rules (written, like "no snitching," and unwritten, like "no fucking any wives, girlfriends or ex-girlfriends of anyone in the family), you can do anything you want and the caste will back you up. Break the rules or loyalty...and you'll end up like Tommy. There are no second chances or lesser punishments. Play the game the right way and you get rewarded. Step out of line and you get whacked. It's that simple.

The Wire (Seasons 1-3 in particular): The game is the game. You can do anything you want to anyone within the game, so long as you respect the rules of the game (like the truce on Sundays). Civilians outside of the games are treated with respect, anything can happen within the game and no one will get mad. The only thing to remember is that everyone has their role and everyone has to stay within that role. The king is the king; the pawns are the pawns. And that's how it is.

Klingon Empire (video relevance from 7:12 onward): Honor has nothing to do with morality but is simply the word used to describe physical prowess and a particular attitude towards combat. An honorable man is one who is self-sufficient and successful in combat, not someone who believes and adheres to some altruistic identity. But, as the video points out, honor used in this way is also completely malleable. A warrior beyond everything else, is concerned about being perceived as honorable. And because of this inherent desire to seem strong and infallible, he can essentially be manipulated to do anything.

Personally, I think that's about all you need to know to really understand the Gorean warrior: he's a cross between a mafioso and a Klingon. That would mean the essential characteristics of the stereotypical Gorean warrior are:
  • Someone in peak physical condition who is well versed in fighting
  • Someone who prefers hand-to-hand physical combat that emphasizes strength and brutality over agility and swiftness.
  • Someone who is well accomplished in battle (i.e., killed a lot of men and/or risked death to make some heroic gesture like defend a hopeless position or recklessly endanger his own life to save the lives of others)
  • Someone who would rather fight to the death than retreat or surrender
  • Someone who never snitches or betrays anyone in his family (be it his personal blood relatives or anyone in his caste). Or if he betrays someone, he is a) successful and b) has enough political influence to avoid being punished for it
  • Doesn't try to punish or kill anyone outside the "game." That means, he carries a big stick but never willingly uses it against a civilian unless he absolutely has to. However, he will have little to no patience to anyone inside the game. So if another warrior pisses him off, he'll draw his sword before trying to resolve the issue through words
  • Someone who willingly plays the pawn (since this person will be a new character, he will be a grunt in the army, not a well respected officer). That means that the pawn pledges loyalty to his superiors and does everything that is asked of him...no questions.
There are probably a lot of nuances that have not been covered, but I think that about covers the larger issues: someone who is head strong, has no principles except what is told to him, is exceedingly loyal, never questions authority, and excessively violent.

And I am able to demonstrate all those lessons using Youtube clips, rather than having someone hunt and peck through 20+ books to glean a phrase here and there. I think the level of comprehension is about the same.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Definitional Disco

Another rant.

I wonder why I even bother to post to the gorums some times. The level of discourse is...beyond retarded.

I like to joke with my friends that the gorums is internet talk radio. And it totally is. People like to dispense their opinions, but try to push them as "topics," or "conversations" or, my favorite, "education."

Education is learning how to do something: learning different styles of writing, how to filter information you can react and what you can't, so on and so forth. Education generally tries to push people towards a productive end. Education on the forums starts with a post of "I hate this. What do you think?" Well, the only place that "conversation" can go is yes/no. Half the people will say yes, half the people will say no. Everything else is just posturing and spinning in circles. Opinions simply don't spur education; it just creates a heated bar fight (albeit, sometimes fun, but fun is not educational).

Occasionally though, I think there is a topic which either poses something interesting or there's a person who I think has sufficient intellect and can have a rational conversation. I don't have to play the game where we have to pretend that our opinions are educational. I guess I was wrong.

I think what frustrates me the most about the conversations is that, if someone does wish to engage on the merits of the conversation, it ultimately gets bogged down into what I commonly refer to as "definitional disco." As in, someone uses a word to define something that only includes actions that are good, creates another word to define a series of actions are bad, throws their support behind the good definition, pins their opponent to the bad word and...cue the spinning circles arguments.

Typists that express their character's thoughts in roleplay is generally referred to as thoughtmoting (from the combination of thought + emote, so it essentially means expressing thoughts in ways that are not dialogue).

Except on the forums, we have to create two words. One is narrative, which is all the types of thoughtmotes that produce good roleplay results (i.e., when someone uses thought expressions to add to the background, their character's thought process and helps create a more immersive scene). The other is thoughtmote, where someone uses thinking actions to ruin the roleplay atmosphere (by making snarky, insulting comments directed not at the character, but the typist).

Functionally, these two words refer to the EXACT SAME THING. Both are expressing thoughts in non-dialogue ways. It's just we have the defined the words to be result-oriented. Things that we like are narrative, things we don't are stupid thoughtmotes. And because the words are result-oriented, no one can agree to a common definition: what someone views as immersive may not seem immersive to another. And then you get a lot of people who shouting over one another, when they actually are in substantial agreement.

The situation that prompted this post was the term "notecarded chores." To me, the obvious definition is simply recording a roleplay action onto a notecard. Simple and uncomplicated. But no, apparently, the term "notecarded chores" must refer to situations wherein the only purpose for creating the notecard is to metagame (i.e., the person requesting the notecard places demands on the notecard writer on what must be produced). Sometimes you can use the word "notecard" and people won't go apeshit. And sometimes you can use the word "chores" and people won't go into a tizzy. But don't you ever dare to combine those words, because then the shit hits the fan. Apparently, the correct wording is "roleplay logs." Say roleplay logs instead of notecarded chores and no one gets upset. The only problem is....IT'S THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING. A roleplay log can be a notecarded chore and a notecarded chore can be a roleplay log!! There's no logical reason why we have to create a totally different nomenclature for the exact same fucking phenomena!!

It's so fucking stupid. It's like when politicians have to spin a tax increase as a "revenue adjustment" or something equally retarded. I just assume that everyone realizes that the politician is making a token change to make his action sound less stupid. That everyone would realize what the action actually is. Apparently, I give people more credit than they deserve. The politician apparently does it because there is a large enough segment of the population that is apparently dumb enough to fall for the ruse. Which just happens to be the same segment of the population that visits the Gorums.

I'm not done with the Gorums. There are portions of it that serve a genuinely beneficial and productive purpose. And I know, because I have a hypercompetitive personality, that eventually someone will say something so monumentally fucking stupid that I can't restrain myself from responding (it will most likely be Aseptimus trying to explain what the law says. Every time that man tries to explain the law, somewhere in the world, a lawyer makes partner because of his complete ignorance at what the law actually is).

But blargh.

I hate how I allow myself to get roped into these "conversations," get into these "definitional discos" and the masses aren't even slightly put off by the fact that the very crux of their problem is holding onto these definitions that don't make any fucking sense. No, they want to create even more words and lingo to make their world so nice and easy. It just can't be roleplay. No, we have to have BtB roleplay and Gor Evolved roleplay, even though we have no idea what the fuck either of those terms mean. No, we can't have roleplayers (i.e., all those that desire to make the character and typist separate entities) and lifestylers (those who don't care to). We also have to have soulplayers, and storytellers, and moleplayers and god knows what the fuck else. And no one has any clue what any of these other categories mean either, except they have to exist since the words roleplayer or lifestyler can't adequately describe the differing roleplay experiences people have.

Memo to you nimrods: you are either one or the other. It doesn't mean to be a roleplayer, you must always keep character and typist (or in common parlance, IC/OOC) separate. It's just that, given a choice, you want to keep them separate. People who fail to keep IC/OOC seperate don't magically unbecome roleplayers and suddenly become lifestylers. It is possible for people to make mistakes and fuck up every once in a while. You see, words aren't defined by their outcomes because...that would be retarded. Words whose meaning depend on their result...can't have definitions. And that means you can't use them in a conversation and expect the conversation to be productive or rational...because you're not being rational!!! Defining a word that requires perfection isn't rational. It...ah hell, there I go again. I need to stop.

Double blargh.

Rant off.

Monday, December 28, 2009

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.

Monday, October 12, 2009

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!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

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.

Friday, September 4, 2009

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.

Monday, July 20, 2009

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?

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

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.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

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.

Friday, June 19, 2009

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.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

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.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

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.

Friday, June 12, 2009

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.