Peredhil

I'm not sure about on-line RPing, but... 1) Create a setting. Fantasy? Science-Fiction? Apocolyptic? Modern with a twist? 2) Determine the Main NPCs (Non-Player Characters) with whom the people will interact. 3) 'Explore' the setting. Where do we start? What are in the surrounding area? Any direction people move, have a rough idea what's there. 4) If there are obstacles such as aliens, monsters, evil tyrants, etc, where do they live? What is their culture and ecology? Do they have any cultural blind spots that might trip up a traveling party? (no spitting on Weirdsday, or such.) 5) Are there any legends in the area? Artifacts? These don't have to be magical or powerful as long as they're important to the locals. 6) who are the PCs (Player Characters) and why or how are we here? For example: The small village of Turberlin lies nestled in the Turber valley, between outthrust arms of the Nader Hills. The village ekes out a precarious living by farming and some trade with other villiges of the Greenwille Kingdom. Lord Greenwille lives four days along the trail that winds to the south, in a ramshackle donjon. Every fall, the village must send a cart of vegetables and grains to the castle, and four strong men must stay a week working on improving the keep. There is a military Outpost that always has two men-at-arms in it, and houses the mounted patrols that randomly sweep the kingdom. There is gold and silver back in the Nader Hills, and treasure hunters use Turberlin as a staging area. Trappers and wood-cutters band together and make forays up into the hills, again staging from Turberlin. This is enough to support a small store. Once a year, the merchant caravan sweeps through in the spring. Bandits and rogues abound along the roads making travel chancy. The hills are home to a large number of Orcs and Goblins (also known as grae-orcs, or lesser-orc), Trolls, and Ogres. The King doesn't know it, but the town is under the protection of an old brown dragon named Arglespath. In return for a tithe of their grain, made into porridge 4 times a year, he keeps the monsters away from the town. Arglespath is very afraid of the King or adventurer's finding out about him and trying taking his old head as a trophy. During the Spring Planting and the Fall Harvest, Arglespath watches the village children too young to help in the fields. The Village is run by a retired Druid who has moved to town to ease his arthritis. He rambles a bit, but has many curious bits of knowledge. He is helped in day to day affairs by Rutherford, a retired Mage. Rutherford travelled widely in his youth, but came back to Turberlin to be near his family. There are rumors that the King needs more Guardsmen, but wants experienced fighters. The Druid wants a silver sickle, but is looking for something special. The Trappers say the fur has never been so thick, which means a harsh winter is ahead. Lately, the Ogres have been enslaving and organizing the Orcs, which bodes well for no one in the area - the name GristleEar as the head ogre has been turning up even among the human folk. Arglespath is beginning to loose the last of his teeth. Occasionally he's had to try two or even three of his breath weapons to stop graeorc raiders. The Caravan is over-due by a week. The Adventurer's start in Turberlin, having arrived: a) as treasure hunters seeking gold or mercenaries seeking hire or c) a party seeking one of the olders or d) locals wanting to adventure and get experience and/or money to travel/join the Guard/pay a dowery e) etc. Just start somewhere, and free-association, constantly asking, 'Why?' I'm not sure how well it adapts to online play, but that's one way to build something for live RP. Hope this helps. -Peredhil

Well worth archiving - thanks Falcon. I took the liberty of adding formatting codes to help readability - hope you don't mind. I'll clear out other singles for you. hugs -Peredhil

Local history from Yrrana, a FARS campaign. From an email to Zool. In the northern hemisphere of Yrrana, West of where the Hellers used to be, all the way to the coast (yes, that far west!) lies Dydd Gra. Originally established by the Eternal City, Zulkias far to the south as a Dwarven Trading Post, it ekes out a precarious existence of trade supplimented by fishing. The bones of Yrrana that frame it are the Shadow Mountains to the South (Wherein lay the Speaking stone that corrupted the elves), the Dydd Arth Mountains to the North, and the Elerni Mountains (under which the dwarves dwell) to the East. The blood of Yrrana drains the mountains into a chain of large lakes that narrowed at the egress to the ocean, on which Dydd Gra was built, running swiftly and perilously. For all the river's might, the land is arid. Building are wrought in stone, wood is scarce and reserved for the fleet of fishing vessels that feed the town. It was always a cause for celebration when the large ocean ships arrived from Zulkias to trade. For a couple of centuries, Dydd Gra grew slowly. Adventurers told strange tales of finding ruined or lost towns out in the wilderness, of strange magical springs and rocks. Of finding the ruins of other races who'd sprung up and withered away. Off to the south there were rumors of wild drug-crazed Gnomes, fey and gifted with sleight of hand and illusions. On occasion a beardless gnome would come into town, eager to steal or join a party of adventurers for support and protection. To the South-west, up the river, lay the dreaded Nightmare Hills, a seat of insanity that protected hidden verdant valleys. Strange creatures began to stalk the lands around Dydd Gra, driven by fell powers to the north. Called Basgrans, they took the shape of giant lizards, up to fifteen feet in length and heavily armored. Even worse, they hunted with their minds, attuned to Power, they hunted those who wielded Spells or possessed great inate Magics. They ate magic stone - and to obtain it they would lock on the signature of a mind, then hunt the unfortunate Mage until the Basgran had flashed its red eyes, turning the mage to stone, or had died a reptilian death. Toward the end, they hunted even through the street of the town. Compounding the misery of the final days of the first Dydd Gra was a horrible disease. Virulant, it struck down in frothing madness all those who were not so naturally tough of fiber as to be completely disease resistent. The Madness was said to be a Curse of an unknown god, for it seemed strangely resistent to clerical prayers. Priest seeking to comfort the sick or heal the faithful, confident in tried and true healing chants, ended up frothing broken pleas and dying unanswered. And so the first Dydd Gra died. The town become a town of undead and ghosts, until those too vanished for lack of nourishment and purpose. Zulkian Merchanters refused to port at the rotting docks, and unable to get the Dwarven goods, eventually quit coming. The catastrophes that struck Spado, Cern, and Bag removed Zulkius' major maritime trade partners. The great Merchant ships eventually fell into disuse, excerbated by the loss of the dockworker who'd carried the ships ashore for maintenance. Years passed. Queen Shalena, Chosen of the Divine Right of Rulership sent volunteers, brave souls, north to explore the possibilities of trade with the legendary Dwarves. Her sages revealed that the Dwarves would only trade at that specific location - Dydd Gra. One of the remaining vessels, rotting at the docks since the man known as "Five" had quit his drydock duties, was refurbished by King Nalmoth. The hand-picked crew sailed to the North. They were astounded when they entered the Dydd Gra cove, tacking against the swift river current that pushed far into the ocean, to see a large two-story building on the hill rising from the south shore of the river which split the town. Sending a dory ashore, they were further astounded to find a Human waiting them in the building! Known only as the Trader, he said he'd been recruited by the Dwarves to represent them. This building would be the Dwarven Trading Outpost. Prices were fixed and listed in a great book. When asked The Trader replied, "The merchandise?" Gesturing around he let them peruse the wonders. The walls were covered with Dwarven ring mail, chain mail and Plate mail of curious and wonderful design. Odd toys and machines were dumped in bins set on aisle shelves. A wide balcony rimmed the second floor, allowing access to a variety of weapons. Swords, Polearms, missile weapons, weapon with no name known to the gathered men jammed the walls. "Oh - special orders and fittings are available on commission," the Trader added. Buying at ridiculously low prices as much as the ship could carry, they sailed back to Zulkias. Even the lowest sailor become rich! The next ship sailed not alone, for King Nalmoth himself sailed with it with a favorable wind summoned by Queen Shalena. He took the last three working ships, full of everything he'd need to set up a town, all picked volunteers. Younger second-son nobles, old merchants, fisherman, blacksmiths, the list was endless. There were so many applying, that lots were drawn among those of similiar skills unable to pay the King for passage. Certain people were guaranteed a berth - The seasoned sailors to sail the dangerous deep waters, The Elven Mage Shamar for Magical protection and advice, and the Royal Guards (known behind their backs as Black Shirts) for protection. And so Dydd Gra was born anew.

Originally posted on Archmage Conservatory Stories. I A short suggestion on how Land in Archmage might work. In Eons past, the world was bound and strictured by Order, championed by Science. In the fullness of Time, Entropy lifted Her eternally dying hand, and grasping Chaos, thrust Him back into the Heart of Terra. Magic burst along forgotten Lei Lines, ripping asunder the Orderly plates riding the molten magma. Atomic Strong Forces and Weak Forces began to shift and fluctuate. Lands began to move, live, and gain a primal spiritual Self-Awareness. Power attracts Power, and man adapts to environment so-as to adapt environment to himself. In these latter times, Mages arose. The Mages possess the innate capabilities to bind lands together, to soul-bind the creatures to themselves and the lands, protecting them from the randomizing Chaos effects. Acres are not large, the kingdoms of today wouldn't be considered much compared to the Cities of Order. But when you consider that each acre is ferreted out of it's quantum hiding, tamed and bound to the Mage's life, a new perspective opens. Implicit corollaries quickly spring to mind. It is easier to absorb already tamed land, such as that of another Mage. A large number of soul-bound warriors invading the lands of another Mage assist in the Unseen battle – the struggle to strip a Mage of their hard-one lands. For this purpose, the Land-Absorption, any type of creature will do, whether sheep, starving peasant, or Dragon. It is the quantity of the soul-bound that rips loose the land-bindings, not the quality. But the bindings cannot be broken until after the battle is won – quality does matter there! Of course, battle summoned creatures and an Allied Mages’ creatures won’t help in the Land-Absorption – they are not soul-bound to the attacking mage. Another obvious point – the living lands float and whirl like leaves in a sea of World Chaos. The Wilderlands have a primitive aversion to being found; they whisk and twirl away. Once found, they must be bound to the Mage, a process that literally enlarges his soul, providing a strange exhaustion. Finding and binding creatures is also time and power-consuming. Each Mage’s land performs this stately whirling dance as well, shifting and moving in arcane patterns along the Lei Lines of Power. The neighbor of today may be gone tomorrow. Powerful Mages can influence the paths of their land, like a navigator at the helm of a large unwieldy ship, to seek out other specific Mage’s lands. The linking and passage of soul-bound troops leaves a living Signature that even the dullest Mage can trace back for a limited time, allowing for Counter-attacks. Fortunately, a fragile Order still remains, embodied in the Counsel. It does what it can to impose Protection and Justice to all, but wars with the Chaos imbued nature of the Mages themselves. Who can protect the Mages from themselves? Entropy laughs… II A reply to a question about Order and Chaos. The Mage who balances Order and Chaos stands poised in a satori experience, able to flow flexibly into any path, to act on Life and Power rather than reacting. Balanced in the doorway of enlightenment, they converse with Dieties and become the Favored One. Bringing the Light of Understanding back into the world, they are cursed by the foolish as Promethian, and sought by the wise for the koans and parables they speak III The Thread-killing Whimsical Final post. The Holy Writings have come down to us from the Cities of Order in fragments. Some proverbs, such as "Gyre and Gimble in the Wabe" are obvious prophetic utterances referring to Moderators and other Immortals. But what of others? Thanks to the Holographic iMagery techniques of the Blue Phantasm divisions, Azule and Cerulean, we have pieced together some of these ancient wisdoms. For example, the ancient Bards told us "The Words of the Prophets are written on the Subway walls." Research has linked Subways with the Earl of Sandwich, a relative of the Duke of Earl and the Beef of Wellington. Where's the Beef? A further scrap of twisted parchment elaborates: There once was an Emperor of France, Who directed his stacks to advance. He ordered well-done, the Beef Wellington, But ended with blood on his pants. We reverently approach that we may learn wisdom, hesitant to tip the vessel of knowledge. Many phrases possess obscure meaning that is disengages the Logical Mind and frees the Creative Mage Mind to comprehend. Consider: There once was a man from Nantucket, Who kept his wisdom in a bucket, He wished for a flute - Or rather a lute! Nirvana sounds should he pluck it. Deep wisdoms containing the seeds of history. Prophetic utterances whose full meaning remains dark even to the Ascendant among us. Could this refer to Canid? Fenrir? There was a wolf from Rome who whelped warriors on her throne Fed on wine and thighs they grew to be wise And in Legions roamed far from home. We are humbled before these ancient Bards. But rather than being defeated by obscurity, we must consider the implication for our present! Consider the Unbound, those whose Mages have died. The plight of the Starving Peasant, the Mercenary warriors. We all know and witness the greed of the Priest! The price of donations! What Bounty Hunter would not charge high prices for his services, knowing the cost of admission to a Temple, in hopes of Godly acceptance and promotion to Knight Templar? Consider in our Power-wracked world, for just a moment if you will, consider the horror of Not Belonging to a Mage? Of hiding in the Tavern, having no control over the roaming lands outside. Of being hired by callous mages, housed in barracks with Lichs or Zombies! Wouldn't you save money to buy training, to find a home, a Mage willing to accept you into his soul? Always questions. I have no answers.

With great precision, Mordecai spoke. "Shut. Up." The Voices stilled instantly. He stood waiting, swaying slightly in the sudden absence of sound. "No." Mordecai continued slowly, "No. I'm not going to kill them." His uncle looked at the house again. "I wouldn't kill your father. I owe him my life." Mordecai looked back down at him. "When the Voices burned our house, he dragged me from the flames. He hid me from the village, and fed me his own food until I could escape." "He used to believe in me..." Mordecai's voice trailed away. With a last sigh, his uncle reached down and took his hand. "Let's go." Being led away, he considered the soft moist hand holding his. Its contrast with his father's hard callouses, more than anything else so far, signalled the end of the life he'd known. At least the Voices had shut up.

When I moved my already posted work over, I archived it in a single thread in the Library. It helps the Gentle Reader to browse through an Artist's work without repeated reloading of the pages. If you'd like to repost in the Library, I'd be willing to delete these UBB reprints. Now that that's said - You have a startling command of imagery. On a couple of these, I could almost hear the music. Raw and powerful works. -Peredhil

October 4, 2001 9:16 pm. I can hear the crickets chirping. Their soft, melancholy cry reminds me of my own, which lies within. This cry of mine is very complicated and layered. It has a thick lining of pain, which has built up over the years. The cry is quiet now, for all is quiet and my cry relies on its surroundings for adaptation. I don't understand my cry, and it doesn't understand me either. I tell it, "Leave me alone! You are just a mixture of my emotions!" It doesn't care though. But why should it? It doesn't think, it just indulges on its spontaneous whims, and uses my mind and intellect as a host. I've looked for an answer to my problem, but alas, there is none. And so, I learned to deal with it. This is a struggle to do, but this is an eternal struggle which I bear and cannot avoid. But it has its good moments. When it's still, as it is now, it provides me with comfort and the ability to cooperate with myself and others. And so, I lay myself to sleep knowing my soul is at rest. Thanks crickets for your cry. It inspired mine. transcribed by Peredhil

Originally posted in The Archmage Conservatory Poetry. Wandering in, he begins to Scribble on the wall... A motley fool with roving eye A walking winsome lass did spy "My heart is pierced," he did cry But Cupid's arrow had stuck quite lower. He followed after most quickly And although in lust he spoke thickly With clever words he won her through trick'ry And wisked her away to explore lust's bower. They giggled and dined most handily And he pranced and strutted most dandily Once consummated, he told her most candidly That he now must be moving along. But tables they turned on manly talker For he did not understand the lovely walker And only now did he realize she was a Stalker who'd never forget a wrong. And so they live in married life The motley fool and jealous wife He's careful to never give her strife Because her his live would end. So all you lustful smooth young men Take heed of warning from my pen Flirt carefully when you have the yen For certain broken hearts don't mend. Yours in silliness, Elrond Peredhil, 31

Reply to a poem by Porcelin (Shadow Flower Maiden, Heart like a Hole.) The ragged cries of the child's pain Never push up to her lips Her adult body, protective shell Cradles the still-bleeding wounded one Torn with a thousand words Assaulted with blows Until she learns a dumb complacency. But online, in the intimacy of the Cyber The wounded girl creeps hesitantly out And screams her pain Shouts her bloody wounds Flaunts her bruises And accepts the touch that would drive her Inside Away - Craving tenderness yet suspecting motives. In the Cyber night We heal one another If they've the courage To accept it. Reply to a chance remark by Rihvannes requesting poetry about food. He turns to another... Pizza! Pizza! Our Stomachs cry to you! Pizza! Pizza! Nothing else will do! With tons of coke we quench the fires, Too much spice raised stomach pyres, Pizza! Pizza! And now this poem is through! Reply to the Roll-Call of Poets Submission for a Called Roll: It is worth noting, Creatives are insecure. Will a haiku count? Roll-Call Rap: Yo! Yo! The poets are in the house you know And they're gonna take you down below The thinking critical part that sneers And show how how to express your fears 'Cause conservatory Poets can ROCK the HOUSE While others creep around quiet like a MOUSE Don't let the lame ones tear you DOWN If they don't contribute to the Poetry SOUND! Yeah. Word up. Poster's Lament: How doth the poet's little rhyme Entertain thee for such a little time? With so many threads to wander through Can ye be sensitive to the new? Or does it all mix and blend Against poignant words thy heart defend- Will not ye thy precious time ye lend? And see with eyes made pure? We work our craft for little pay The empty threads view with dismay With so many threads to wander 'tween We cannot track were ye hast been Unless you give that gentle touch Ye needn't reply with all too much We lean on thy feedback as a crutch For we're all so insecure.

Peredhil watches the Druid walk confidently through the room and back toward Wyvern's office. I do believe I've met him before... He'll find many old friends here - I hope he's pleasantly surprised by that, no matter how long Elder Wyvern takes to come back from his latest travel. Guido snorts. Travel? Does youse mean Scheme Boss? Peredhil frowns quellingly, but can't hide the twinkle in his eye. Now Now... be Polite!

Conversion Confusion - this was post -2- She's taught a Wyvern to rhyme! Her fame she'll never lose Clearly now's the time To recognize A Poetry Muse. Suggested title: Wryter's Blok.

Wow... Peredhil notes that Valdar hasn't actually ASKED to join, but since it IS posted in the Recruiter's Office... Wyvie? Can we have this one? Please.... Peredhil makes puppy-elf eyes at Wyvern

New Pages - Please ensure signatures are updated as appropriate. Thank you, Elrond Peredhil, 31 Elder of Manners and Lists The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Even as the new-comer takes his seat, the Huntress is drawn back into shadows. Walking in, Peredhil sees Foe Caliber and smiles widely. Trailed by Nuncio and Guido, he strolls over to welcome the Crystal Tides Guildmaster. Half way across the room, he pauses, for a most strange sight has occurred before his eyes; Foe Caliber has risen from his seat and is searching the table and chairs! He looks under the table, and in the immediate vicinity, carefully searching the shadowy alcove. Turning to scan the room, he sees the half-elf and the Guinea Pigs staring at him. A most transcendent vision of loveliness, quoth he has appeared and faded from my eyes. The Pen is Mightier than the Sword, but I fear Beauty is most perilous of all. Somewhat non-plussed, Peredhil replies, Oh. Welcome to the Cabaret Room!

Raging Inferno I've learned to trust is to die My knife is MY friend. Gauging weaknesses I move through society But my eyes smile not. The crucible test To kill innocents unknown, I passed - and died too.

Wyvern stood laughing. The looks on their faces! Classic! The Fire illusion had been so real he'd nearly believed it himself. He'd long felt slightly cheated that he couldn't breath flames. With this illusion, he felt he'd somehow arrived. And the beauty of it all - Nuncio had paid HIM to be his student in Phantasm magics! Flame breath and geld. How delicious life was, a bank just waiting to be robbed. He was still laughing as he turned to came snout to nose with Peredhil. IT WAS A JOKE! Wyvern started spinning the situation rapidly. Wyvern had seen that look on Peredhil's face before, but never directed at HIM. The rest of the world saw only the Polite side, but he'd been present in Elder counsels and seen WHY The Elder of Manners imposed such rigid self-restraints. Peredhil looked at Wyvern and smiled sunnily, while his mouth opened and closed, unable to find words. This was NOT a good sign. Wyvern grinned toothily back, trying to include Peredhil in the joke. "Do you think it's ... Rude to terrify them ... before they have a chance even find their rooms?" Peredhil asked mildly. Too calmly. He didn't seem to be noticing the blood on his hand from where a nail had pierced a tightly clenched fist. Wyvern nodded vigorously. The blood begin to drip on the floor in slow distraction. *drip*... ... ... ... *drip* "I trust you'll not abuse the Initiates in the name of humor agai-" "Absolutely Big P!" Wyvern interrupted hastily, "I not only see your point, I understand completely and I agree implicitely. Keep the sense of humor contained until they have their room. No problem, got it under control." Wyvern edged past Peredhil into his Office. "Shouldn't you see about their rooms? It would be a Polite thing to do you know. I'd do it but I'm busy with back applications! Elder of Initiates -" He shut the door firmly. Thank goodness Peredhil didn't like to interrupt! Now... How was he going to get his geld from those squirrels? /i] * * * * * Peredhil stood looking at the door and finally began laughing softly. Shaking his head, he set off to find the Squirrel Duo and welcome them properly. He hoped they liked the Mallorn Tree he'd grown for them in the Gardens. Or the sound system he'd wired for the Amphitheater. He'd heard they were skilled announcers. He still wasn't quite sure why the Legion had been willing to let two of it's star performers come to the Pen, but he was grateful nonetheless. He'd have to arrange to introduce them to his bodyguards. Squirrels and Guinea Pigs should get along well, even though Guido and Nuncio were each six feet in height. And further... Deep in thought, he began to wander the Halls. His Ring, noting his distraction, healed his hand with a silent mineral sigh. * * * * *

Uncle Mordecai waved absently; the Voices went silent. After all their clamor, the chirps of the birds and rustle of the breeze in the trees seemed somewhat muted. He watched Mordecai walk forward. Father stood waiting solidly, jaw working absently. His uncle stopped a few feet away, and stood smiling wryly. Father spoke first. "He died. Just like you said he would. We hated you for a while, killing him like that." A spasm of pain shadowed Mordecai's face, he started to speak, hesitated, and fell silent. His father continued in a strained distant voice, unnaturally calm. "We swore we wouldn't let you kill another one, but he's Bad Seed just like you. You killed my oldest. You killed our parents. Are you going to kill him too? "I give him to you instead." His father turned and grabbed him, thrusting him roughly at his uncle. He bounced a foot short of the lanky body and fell to the ground at his uncle's feet. His sister was crying in confusion. By the time he stood up, his father had tucked his little sister under his arm and was striding with her back toward the house. His uncle called after the retreating back. "I DIDN'T KILL HIM! I was trying to warn you what could happen, what might happen. He needed training, you can't stop it once it's star-" His voice was cut off by the slam of the door. The sun dazzled his eyes as he looked up at his uncle. His uncle's eyes remained fixed on the house with a strange pained hunger. The Voices raged in anger around Mordecai at Father's cavalier treatment. He licked dry lips. The sun felt hot on his hair and he could breathe deeply enough. "Are you going to kill them?" Mordecai looked at him without expression.

Peredhil looks the Ancient Founder of the Pen up and down thoughtfully. You know, it gives our Jefe a certain... je ne sais quoi. I like it. Peredhil applauds vigorously. Turning to Minta, he hands her a Pixy Stix Politely. I'd prefer to keep the Pen as a Literary Guild, and the Real Life aspects in remote support. Thus I'll celebrate a Real Life birthday if I know one, but it might be just as fun or more fun to celebrate the birthday of a Personae or Character. This issue most properly belongs in the Member's area - as the Pen exists to support them. All people deserve the government and Rules they choose. *Ching!* *Ching!* Peredhil puts his two cents in.

But VERY nicely phrased Doctor. Fear of Success. There is a certain security in failure. Each success suddenly give you something to lose. A standard up to which to live. A banner to carry forward. This CAN be difficult. Each attempt after the Success risks all. Personally, I find an answer is to redefine success. Success is better defined for me as the attempt and growth, rather than the (by-)product of the attempt. As long as one learns from it, there is no wasted creative endevour in my opinion. Putting in his two cents, Peredhil wanders off

He'd never heard the Voices sing in harmony before. But they sang in a cautious joyous welcome. Straightening from watering the rows, he looked around suspiciously. Standing in the forest's edge was a Man without a Hat. Tall as father, but lean and weathered rather than brawny and sun-burnt. His hair was cut short as a child's, barely covering his ears, and was the color of wet dirt, rich dark brown. Although he couldn't see him clearly, he knew he was looking and smiling at him. The Voices ran in circles around him, like a pack of dogs marking their Master's prey. "Sir?" He was proud of how calm his voice sounded. "I think Uncle Mordecai is here." Father's face darkened to an adobe red and his face took on a curious tightness as he straightened ever so slowly and turned to face his brother. He wondered for a moment how his father had known exactly where his brother was standing; there wasn't even an animal track in that part of the woods.

I wasn't going to reply, as discussion with all the Pen Members directly involved had finished and decisions had been made, but I feel constrained to do so by what I see as a possible misunderstanding. sigh The thematic line was the dynamic tension between Self and Society. As I've already expressed in an earlier reply within this thread, the post was written stream-of-conscious, a verbal doodle that wandered. For me, the main point of the post was that identified in the subject line. For clarification in the analogy: the tumor and cancer of the ending was not 'aimed' at Raging Goat, although to be fair, he was one of the issues simmering in my mind at the time. The quote comes from my paranoid-schizophrenic son. It's a very selfish condition. Part of the observations come from my experiences with other Bipolar family members. I've observed that extremely high intelligence combined with a bio-chemical feeling that one is godlike tends to be selfish. At the other, suicidal end, the overwhelming morass of depression is selfish also. Some of the "doormat" selfless side of the analogy comes from observing friends that have gone through co-dependent relationships (and one who ended up in a cult). Some of the selfless side comes of recent experiences in working with some people who claimed 'they were just getting the job done,' or 'I can't let the team down', victims of burns, bruising, and broken bones laboring to set up shop as quickly as possible after having a plane crash into their building. They were a learning lesson is how much pain, grief, and misery a person can set aside to continue on. In short, (finally eh?), the essay on Dynamic Tension was an attempt, admittedly triggered in part by the deletion and discussion of the Masquerade thread, to rise above all these inputs and to extrapolate the idea behind them all, present and past, to a intellectual model (however poorly stated.) For the rudeness in not removing the idea far enough from one of the triggering inputs, I apologize to you, Raging Goat, for the inference that you are comparable to a tumor or cancer in a body. Peredhil

And thus I have my answer - Raging Goat, Rapture, Portable, Frank. First, I should have indicated that I was musing, doodling, with a concept. I had hoped for the positive building type feedback to develop the ideas such as Zool provided. However, thank you for your feedback; you've provided a wonderfully written analysis although it dribbled off into a personal attack. As I have thought all along, you are brilliant. You have an abundance of talent, an intellect that leaves me somewhat awestricken, and the ability to connect the two. I find it lamentable that it your pattern seems to connect only under great emotional duress. You seem to me to be at your icy analytical best when you feel you're fueled by hot rage. In my armchair opinion, you have the intellectual breath, depth, and conceptual grasp of the genius you are. To me, however, you have just demonstrated the emotional reaction of the insecure immature individual I feel you to be. In my life experience and exposure to the type, these are too often linked in creative geniuses. You remind me of a child with an atomic weapon. You have that amount of power, and that lack of discretion in its use. I'll not engage in a flame war, because I'm quite aware you'd win. I freely admit you are the better writer, particulary in this style of debate. I would ask you to consider that this is NOT the Conservatory. This is NOT the Archmage Bulletin Board. This is NOT Archmage. This is the Pen is Mightier than the Sword site. Many of the members are the same. But I submit that the stated purpose of this site is not Archmage, but to be a Literary Guild. This is a place that is more than children and video games. (Although there may be children and I personally enjoy video games.) This is a place where creative people of all ages can come and work together to grow. It exists to provide a refuge from the negativity of the world, to provide a fertile environment where creativity is encouraged, and the people that create are nourished. Of the two, creation and creator, the most important to me is the individual. In my opinion, your currently abusive style has no place here. As an obviously involved person, I'll take no further action and give you no further response. The Elders and Voting Members can decide how to deal with this. I abide by their decision. In closing, I respect you - but not what you are doing. I admire many things about you - but I don't trust you to do what is right when it is inconvenient. And for me, it comes down to trust. Elrond Peredhil, 31 Elder of Lists and Manners

Peredhil hugs Zool Good points! It IS important to keep the balance between individual and system. I'd submit that while traditions are important and worthy of respect (for they encapsulate the lessons and wisdoms of prior generations of humanity), they must be evaluated anew every generation for current validity. Otherwise they become vain traditions, traps to the past that fetter and shackle instead of guiding and enhancing. Peredhil turns Yes Imposter, it was inspired by some recent events here at the Pen. In brief, a Pen Member was transcribing a thread from the Conservatory to our Library. It contains writing from many many of the Pen membership in the thread, quality writing. The Member has a Real Life relationship with a non-Pen member. The non-Pen member, unable to emotionally accept the difference between Real Life and Role-Played characters, created such a disturbance that the thread has been deleted on request of of it's transcriber. This saddened me greatly and was the seed which led to the genesis of the thoughts above, the dynamic tensions between individuals and groups of individuals.

In all instances of human affairs, there is a dynamic tension between Self and Society. The crux of the matter revolves around a matter of rights and implementations. When an individual is absolutely alone, there is a premium of Self. All that they do is seen by only one person. All they say is heard by one person. All they think influences that same person - themself. Yet it is a part of Humanity to seek the company of others. We have a herd ungulant mentality. Solitary Confinement is considered a punishment for this reason. Yes, being solitary is a necessity, retreating within one's self to rest and recuperate. But even the harshest curmudgeon after a bit begins to seek out other people. Whether through presence, writing, telephones, creating works of art for posterity, the NEED to communicate and have the message received in embedded within. So individuality become collective or the individual begins to die within. And this forms Society - the moral and mores of interactions of individuals. The imprecise definitions of right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate that govern all individuals as they interact with others. The strictures of Society vary widely, and so I will not get caught up in details and hair-splitting at this point. I will note the pattern which governs these strictures however is in a dynamic tension. There is a thin social line that separates the polar opposites that wavers in every situation, that redefines with each addition or loss of a person. Thus what is appropriate to say in a sports locker room might be inappropriate to say in a family dining setting. This extends to actions as well. Cutting someone deeply with a sharp blade might be a Good thing if done by a surgeon seeking to restore health, but a Bad thing if done on a street corner by the same surgeon seeking revenge on a fancied slight. Society and Self. Because each individual IS individual, an ideal Society will cherish, nourish, and affirm the rights of each individual to grow and attain their personal best. In turn, each Self-willed individual gives up a bit of freedom to the society so that all may fit together better. That I may grow, I give up my right to murder. That I may have protection from fire, I give up a small portion of my monies to support a local government. If we liken the whole of a segment of Society, perhaps an organization, to a body, we see that the Selves are cells. Each brings something different to the body, a unique contribution, yet works in concert for the good of all, nourishing and being nourished. A new cell may require extra resources to grow to the point where it can produce. A damaged cell may require extra resources to heal to the same point. But a healthy cell which puts it's needs above the others, that clings to its baby days, becomes tumorous. And if the other healthy cells with which it communicates give up producing and continue to draw on the resources, then there is a tumor, dragging down the entire body. If the selfish cells begin attacking others, then they become a cancer and the body is doomed to die unless they are stopped in someway. In this instance, consider the healthy cells, trying to hold onto body integrity, trying to produce and heal. If they cannot distinguish between the young or damaged and the healthy but selfish cells, they end up sucked dry of ability and either die to the body (leave), or become damaged and unable to produce (giving up), or become cancerous in turn (selfish and taking). At one extreme of Selfishness, we have the clarion call of personal rights, of individualism, of "You must do it my way because my pain is more Real than yours because I feel it". At the other extreme of Selflessness, we have many possibilities from Doormat to a Holy person (the Gandi, Christ, Buddha, Mohammed of the world). The Mighty Pen is a Literary Society. It exists that we may nourish one another and grow. That we may take those creative souls, hurt by the world, and help them to heal. That we may take those with potential, and give them a place to grow. But all in turn must realize that if they don't give, if they don't nourish others, if they don't produce tolerance and put aside selfishness in consideration. This Society will die.

As an Out Of Character note, I'm going to crash your thread. Bows to Wyvern apologetically. I really enjoy your poetry Falcon - you have great potential. Many of your comments reflect the insecurity that so many intelligent creatives share - seems to be endemic to the majority. A few points to ponder: - if you act confident (not strident, but confident), often people will consider you to be what you seem. -With a talent like yours, let it speak for you. Then when the applause rolls in, as it will, don't tell the people that they're wrong. Just because you're good enough to envision the perfection you missed, doesn't mean it wasn't good or even great. A simple thank you is enough, a forced smile is with it is even better. If you tell people who compliment you how wrong they are, because of how YOU feel, you are in essence telling them that they were stupid for liking it in the first place. This is a sure-fire way to ensure all your compliments dry up quickly. Almost as good as criticizing your work before they have a chance to do so. (It doesn't 'suck' in my opinion. Peredhil mouths the quoted word distastefully as he says it, as he finds it a non-Polite term.) -As an Initiate, you as being considered for membership. This means to many, what you do or say will reflect on the Pen as well. On the good side of things, you aren't alone. On the other side, good Manners demand that you pause and consider the effects and affects of your words and actions on others (us) as well as yourself. Things that mightn't matter to you matter to others. -Sometimes one must be a friend to gain a friend, and friendship requires time, effort, tolerance, and above all, acceptance. Welcome. Hoping he wasn't out of line and that this will be accepted in the gentle spirit in which it was intended, Peredhil bows and exits.