Vafhudr

Joey Smallwood 

Raid

[R A I D - Incoming Call] (Rank 2) 

[R A I D - Trick of the light] (Rank 1) 

My contribution. 

Sedna Savarin

"Pull my finger."

"What."

"Pu-lll myyyyy finnnnggerrrrr." Sedna repeated again. 

Imagine the scene. Four men had cornered her protagonist, Sedna, at the back of the restaurant she worked at. She knew her employer dealt in shady stuff, but she wasn't expecting to find herself in the crossfire. Now four thugs, possibly belonging to one of the biggest crime rings in the city, were here to send a message. 

It just so happened that Sedna was a great communicator. 

"You scared?" she asked, a shit-eating grin plastered on her face.

"You littl--"

Thug numero uno didn't get to finish that sentence. Sedna promptly kicked him in the balls. The man squealed, falling to his knee. That was unfortunate for him, as he found himself just at the right height for Sedna to jab him in the eyes with her fingers. The eyes gelatinous constitution ruptured as her rigid bronze fingers slid through the orbs as they would butter. Blood promptly mixed itself to the goo. It was like a broken egg, but like gorier and rated R.

"You little bit-" Thugs numero dos, tres and quatro (thank you Pitbull), snapped out of it and thought it was cool to pull out guns - big massive, gaudy flintlocks - with cool repeating mechanisms to boot. Everything plated in faux-gold. Maybe some real gold, but mostly pyrite. Probably. 

Remember kids. Violence is a-ok when it's used against the scum of the earth. 

Sedna reached for the garbage bag she had come to throw out in the first place and launched it at her aggressors. It ripped (of course it ripped) and it's mixed content of refuses slathered the ruffians' faces. They flinched and staggered. One took a wild shot and only managed to nick the already riddled wall behind Sedna. She, on the other hand, reached for inside her jacket and pulled out quite a few knives. In one beat two movements she flicked the knives at her assailants: the guns fell down to the ground as the men groaned in pain. The knives had lodged themselves in their hands, legs, and perhaps a tad closer than comfortable to their crotch  

"Aha... haaa... you really did it now. Do you know who just messed with?" one of the roughed up ruffians asked rhetorically. 

"Hmmm... let me guess. Eastside mafia?" 

The asshole grinned before showing a tattoo on his chest. It was a pear of breast... tatooed on his... welll... breasts. Sedna bit her lower lip. Fuck. They were affiliated with ---

"That's right. We're with Mammon's Mamelons. You are never going to rest in peace now. We'll hunt you. We'll find you. And then we will hurt you. And I mean reall--AGGGHHAHHAHA!!!"

The man's screams drowned his cliche villain speech as Sedna pulled one of her knives from his leg and straight through his cheeks, sideways. 

"Keep talking like that and see where that gets you." She said, cold as dry ice. And dry ice is pretty fucking cold. 

But the guy had a point. Mammon's Mamelons were no joke. Her boss was in deep doo-doo if that's from who he was withholding money. She thinks it was about money. I mean, the man was perhaps one of the single worst payrolls she's had. 

"Guess this gig's over then." she said as she dropped her dumb little chef hat. It's one of those origami looking ones you see on cantine workers. 

And with that she ran. She ran like hell. Her bronze mechanical-feet pounding the unevenly cobbled streets. First stop - her apartment. So much for the security money. Better breaking bail and then being broken by the Mamelon's. In a whirlwind of actions she gathered the bare essentials: clothes, money, dry leftover and of course - her well kept collection of cooking knives, her pan and cooking pot. In fact, she shoved half of that in the cooking pot. She heard footsteps in the hallway - times up, she thought - and it didn't sound like her old, half-blind landlord. She would miss the old bat. She made some killer tea and cookies. Instead, she exited through the window. A quick escape, down into the busy streets of Sadim below. Her objective: the harbour. She had to get on a ship before sundown or she was toasted, roasted, cooked - or any other cooking metaphors for being royally boned. 

But who's going to take in a girl who is clearly running from something?No armateurs, however in need of a good cook, was dumb enough to take someone who would have a hit on her head in no time.

Paranoia was gaining on her as she walked the street.  Any of the pair of eyes could belong to an informant, a toad, a thug or an assassin. She quickened her step. She saw two dudes looking more shady than usual. She took a right, and into a pub. 

The Promiscuous Wench. Could you be any more tasteless? She didn't think so.

It was appropriately crowded and she considered making her way to the back and make a dash through the alley. Or at least, that was the original plan - until she saw, until a bright, shining spotlight illuminated in front of her the solution to her problems. It was in the form of a rather dubious looking girl slouching behind an ever more dubious looking sign. A small crowd had gathered around the table already, but she only had eyes for the shittily written words. 

"Pirate Crew Sign ups. Beware, adventure and danger aplenty. Faint of heart need not apply."

That was her ticket out. She made her way to the table, dropped her gear and slammed her hands on it's flat surface.

"Hi. My name is Sedna. Where do I sign?" 

@Vaf Guy is accepted, no doubt, but Sedna? We have to talk about it.

 

Sea Merfolk? Kinda iffy. After reading about her father and his mustache, iffy turned to legit real fast. Marine mammal as a merfolk? Sure, why not? I guess she could be something like a fish out of water? Still a merfolk but without much of the bonuses of their race. We could say that she had something similar to atrophy of disuse of her fishy traits since she spent quite some time in the submarine. 

 

Up for discussion, but you're definitely accepted.

Yeah for all intent and purpose she functions like a regular human. Perhaps the only area of interest would be communication with other sea life that, according to the wiki, merfolk have. Maybe only with other sea mammals?

I mean, if anything, she's kind of afraid of swimming at this point. There is probably a character arc hidden in there. 

You are much too weak to challenge joker. 

He would annihilate you on the spot. 

Bacon isn't Paper, and I might be a Dog in real life.

Man you really got it made.
 

Examples. With NML font for effect. 

(RUIN) Swole - your nascent psychic power enhances your muscle-skeletal system. You are now, harder, faster, and stronger too. 

(RAID) Raid Siren - Your psychic powers trigger a Kill Bill alarm whenever someone directs malevolent mental energy toward you. 

(REACH) Repulsion - You are particularly skilled a repulsing small to medium objects away from you. 

Posted. 

Joey Smallwood - Ladders

10:17 pm

The bus left him alone by the bus stop, the neighbourhood tranquil and placid. People were watching T.V. or going to bed after a long, long day of doing shitty work in a shitty building. Joey sighed. Despite all the outrageous bullshit he had just witnessed, he was trying to steel himself for what would come next. 

10:32

The light in front of the house was open, keeping vigil. He opened the door, slowly, hoping to make the least sound as possible. To no avail: waiting for him inside were both his parents waiting at the dinner table. His mother looked anxious, if somewhat relieved at his appearance. His father, though, was visibly fuming.

Dad:"Alright young man, we need to talk."

Fuck me. 

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. 

Dad: "Where have you been all night?" 

Dad: "Hanging out with friends."

That vague shit was just going to make him angrier, but what else can he say. He's certainly not going to say he was hanging out with weirdos from the internet.

"Is that so. Well, care to tell me the rules for hanging out with friends?"

He took a moment to answer. "Always leave a note about where I am going, who I am seeing, and be home before 9, unless it's a sleep over. In case of a sleepover, a phone number to call the friend's parent." he repeated, annoyed. 

Dad: "That's right. And what did you do?"

Joey: "Well... I ... uh."

Dad: "Who did you hang out with tonight?"

Joey: "I uh well I hung with Thomas and Jake and Sabrina."

Dad: "Oh is that so? Because I called Thomas, and Jake too, and they said they hadn't seen you all night."

Joey remained silent.

Dad: "Nothing to say young man?"

Joey was looking really hard at the floor. Like, real hard.

Dad: "Are you taking drugs Joey?"

Joey: "Wait what!? I don't take drugs! Why would I take drugs?" he blurted out.

Dad: "Well you are at that age. Young and impressionable, in need of stimulus. You are also always in your room on that damn computer of yours. Your friends are good kids, but I don't want to see you hang out with the wrong crowd."

Joey: "I am not hanging out with the wrong crowd!"

Well, a few in that crowd could be bad. 

Dad: "Well then who were you hanging out then?" 

Joey: "Well... friends!"

Dad: "What friends?"

Joey: "New friends! You don't know them!"

Dad: "Is that so. Well mister. I don't like you disappearing all night with strangers. You are grounded for the weekend. No internet either. Now go to bed."

And with that the conversation was over.  Joey slouched, angry, frustrated, tired and drained. As he walked upstairs he could hear the conversation between his mom and dad continuing. 

Mom: "He lied to us. I can't believe he doesn't trust us enough to tell us where he has been all night. I was so worried."

Dad: "He's at that age. Kids start to look to their friends and not their parents. We got to give him some space, but we got to show him the boundaries too. He's not an adult yet."

Joey didn't bother to listen any more than that. At the top of the stairs, he spied Sasha slinking back into her room. So much for making up a cover for him, he thought bitterly. 

(...)

The lack of internet didn't bother Joey very much. He was too preoccupied anyway at the moment. He had... a lot to think about. For one he had to come up with a credible excuse to go out and ''train''. He already had one in mind, actually. 

Training. 

He was going to have his parent pay for a gym pass at a local gym. His father was always bitching that he was unathletic, lethargic, and always in front of his computer. Well, that ought to turn him around a bit . Of course, this was not a complete lie. 

He had to get stronger, like, physically. He was weak, and a coward. He was this close to shitting himself back there. 

Back there. 

What to think of all that stuff that just happened so much? That was trippier than you average dream. Not only that, but now he was in a sort of Misfit scenario. Superpowers, yo! But to his distress it also clearly meant going up against people who were demonstrably god-like. That sucked. 

Ruin. Reach. Raid. Regal. 

Those words bounced in his head. He would have to ask about their function later. Cool names though. Joey was, admitedly, a bit too self-conscious to experiment with his power. He felt like spider-man, the Sam Reimi one, when he was trying to get his web-shooters to work. He had just... no idea how to use them. More questions for the weirdos, he thought. 

(...)

Let's fast forward a bit because shit is getting boring. 

Setting: Yami's sweet derelict hangar. His Dad would be a having a aneurysm at this sight. He would be hard pressed to contest that he was hanging out with real shady people. Week-end spent navel-gazing and angsting and playing his guitar. And homework. 

Yami is asking for questions. Ladders raises his hand.

Ladders: "Kay kay so, alright - what do these powers do? How do we use them? We're we supposed to get some revelation or intuition about this? Because I didn't get anything. If it wasn't for the fact that you explicitly told us that we had powers, I wouldn't feel any different right about now."

:3

 

On this topic, just as a note for everyone I suppose. You can all pretty much choose how much you want using the abilities to effect your character mentally, if you want it to at all. You all have a much higher tolerance to the douche-bag curse that the others but that doesn't mean you can't have some fun with it every once in a while if you want to. :3

 

@X: Future Claire had at least a year of practice and pretty hardcore training with Yami, Myriad and Tailor, etc. You won't be throwing cars around just yet. >.<

 

I do intend to get a sort of... Scale? Put up in the info things for power-levels and stuff. Just some vague actions for easy reference. Like throwing cars or whatever.

Please. My character is a teenager. It's just exacerbating an underlying condition. 

Well, I for one will enjoy watching my character descend into petty infantile narcissism. 

Joey Smallwood - Ladders

So it turns out this Lance guy is pretty chill. That's cool to know. Joey was glad that hadn't turned into the awkward-fest he had paranoidly anticipated. 

But then the plot thickened. 

The girl he was pretty sure was Yami at this point was walking toward the hot-dog stand. 

And then she wasn't. 

And then the whole bridge wasn't. Well it was still there, but like real fucked. Everything was fucked. 

In shock, he dropped his fries and hot dog. They fell slowly, dramatically on the dirty, shitty looking ground. No 5 seconds rule for this. It was a complete loss. Joey didn't care anymore. This was a bit more than he had bargained for. He didn't want this. He wanted to have cool, somewhat tame adventures with his internet buddies. He didn't want to die young in a weird hellscape. 

So when he was asked to follow, he complied, frankly overwhelmed by the situation. He was not in the mood for witty remarks or clever internal monologues. Quite frankly he was scared shitless. Well, not quite. His bowels were quite full and their content had not evacuated without his consent yet. It was a good thing, in much later hindsight, that he had not eaten all that garbage food he had just bought. 

Also he hoped this wouldn't too long. His parents were expecting him before 8. 

Behold the crazy

 

Anyways, I posted, nothing great but hopefully that will conclude things. Well, for claire anyways. Don't think she'll have anything left to talk about. Lol

 

Looks like vaf disappeared.

lol

I have. I am currently in the middle of moving. 

I will have stable internet by the 2nd of may, if all things go well. For now it's starbuck internet. 

And to think I never took the time to even say, "brb"

 

Well, I'm back. Not sure if anyone cares...s'good (' -')b

 

I care.

 

v(' - ')v

 

Time to catch up. The convo on Martin and Aristotle was kewl. I like Ubel Blatt, great manga with gritty story of drama, with a tragic backstory to the main character. Maybe Hawk might like it? Also, I've started reading the Aenead because I just loved the story of Oddysseus so much, and I got chills reading a synopsis of this other epic. Basically, a special Trojan refugee struggles to survive in a post-war world, but what's cool is that he's basically the man who would father the bloodline that gave rise to Rome. Grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and yelled at me saying, "YOU LIKE TO SEE ANCIENT MEN STRUGGLE?! WELL HERE YA' GO." Maybe Diabolical Rhapsody might like it?

 

Anyone go on an adventure as of late? I'm just a college student, who was meandering about New York City by myself yesterday. Plenty o' fun and drama.

Once you are done with the Aeneid you always check the sequel of the sequel that follows Telemachus. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Aventures_de_T%C3%A9l%C3%A9maque

As resident pseudo-expert of ancient buggery, I would like to make a few hair-splitting remark on the concepts of catharsis and tragedy.

Tragedy was not molded on the concept of catharsis. Aristotle derived his concept from the plays. Between the original performance of the tragedies and Aristotle dicking around in Athens passed as much as 150 years. The original plays, especially Aeschylus, were still pretty much religious ceremonies as well as entertainment - though frankly I am not sure if we can call any of these plays entertainment. Only Aristophanes, for sure, but the comedies were a much more uh profane genre.

Aristotle, not being a citizen, nor privy to the original works or original scripts, would have had a very different experience watching these play and his conclusion about them are, at best, iffy.

Or, as I like to put it - everything Aristotle has written is pretty much wrong. His definition of catharsis and tragedy and comedy only sort of work for most of the extent corpus. Ironically, the one who's corpus matches Aristotle's definition the least - Euripides - is also the one we have the most left of. And not because he was better. We just happen to find a more complete Byzantine complete works of Euripides than the rest of his competitors. 

Catharsis, as formulated by Aristotle, is basically just audience response. Aristotle interpreted the actions illustrated in tragedies as designed to illicit particular emotions. Considering the complexity of the original affair, that's a bit reductive, to say the least. The tragic competitions (the Greeks being Greeks they basically applied the Olympic model to theater as well) served, possibly, a much wider social and cultural purpose than a mere emotional purgative. 

From the perspective of a modern, I certainly feel no such emotion toward these works. 

Next problem - Aristotle, being Aristotle, went on to basically define "scientific" and philosophical research for the next 2000 years or so - in the west, at any rate. Which is an achievement of its own, I suppose. There is also something somewhat damning about the culture of the Occident that it seems to be built on cumulative misreading of a few handful of texts. Aristotle being a major culprit here. 

Far from starting in the 1800's, people have gleefully taken up and applied Aristotle's theoretical speculations since the Romans. Starting with Horace, among those whose works have survived, and his Art of Poetry. Now in Europe plays kind of disappeared for a while - until they were reborn under the form, once again but in a completely different context, of mystery plays. Once mystery plans began to be banned by the Church, some troupe simply changed the name of their plays to "tragedy". Which, as plays that were also a religious explanation of a corpus, was strikingly similar to the original tragedies of the greek - which can also be said to be the illustration of religious content through performance. This was followed and influenced by some of the rediscoveries of the renaissance. Aristotle became a serious source in France in the debates surrounding literature in the 16th, 17th and 18th century, or at least Aristotle through Horace. A lot of Art of Poetry-style treatises sprang up around that time. Hell most of what is called Classical French Theater is the literal application of Aristotle's doctrine, reworked and, dare I say, radicalized in a rather fundamentalist reading. The theories of the Poetics became the hard precepts dictating the form of what good theater should look like. If you want to see what that looks like, I direct you to the playwrights Pierre Corneille and Jean Racine. Corneille's Le Cid is an example of a play built specifically according to the specifications of Aristotle. The famous Académie Française had for mandate to enforce and criticize on the basis of the revealed truths of Aristotle. 

It makes for okay watching and reading. 

(casually dismisses works that are judged to be near perfection and undeniable in gravitas)

If we stick to the more theoretical sense of tragedy, what Mors is talking about is drama. And drama also, I think, better captures what could be called the more popular sense catharsis: in other words, straight up emotional manipulation by setting up scenes and situations that illicit emotional reactions. To take France as an example again, they had many weird subgenre that met that definition - "théatres de la cruautés" or "fables sanguinaires", which staged gratuitous violence and sordid scenarios in what was the 16th and 17th century equivalent of horror movies and snuff films. Later on you have the "comédies larmoyantes", which are kind of like romantic comedies today. Actually a lot of film genres today continue these non-tragic genres. Probably because a "tragedy" put on film would make a terrible movie if played straight or according to Aristotle's view of tragedy. These plays really amped up the emotional connections. 

If I can give my own version of what is meant by tragedy, I would define it so: 

Tragedy is a scenario in which a protagonist struggles with destiny, and, usually, fails. 

The Greeks were quite the fatalists, addicted to oracles and astrology, and believed that in many ways your fate was already sealed. A tragic struggle is anyone who fights against it, willingly or unwillingly, in trying to outwit or discover their destiny. To struggle against this alien force, in the form of gods, spirits, the fates - it will be revealed that the hero was doomed from the start, for in the struggle their weakness is revealed and they seldom overcome it. Some accept it, some have to deal with the ramification of their actions, others fight to the very end: at the end of the day they all bow down to it, though. To really drive this home, the tragedies were all taken from the stories that everyone in the public knew. Everyone knew how it would end. 

I would not classify Game of Thrones as a tragic work. A drama, for sure, I suppose. It certainly shares a lot with the older genre of theater of cruelty, but I get very little sense of fate in the series. Mind you, I only watched the show. But to me, the story as I watched it, seem to have made a point to kill off character pointlessly or abruptly in attempt to reflect the instability and arbitrariness of "Real Life". None of the character is fighting against fate in this world - fate literally does not exist, and so it cannot be a tragic work, according to my definition derived from my reading of ancient works and contra Aristotle. 

TL:DR

Tragedy, as a genre, is a tad complicated.

Drama is probably the more accurate word. 

Aristotle's Poetics is sketchy as balls in trying to analyse the ancient works. 

Most of modern conceptions of tragedy, and our categories more generally, are inherited from Aristotle, 

and from those who have disagreed with The Teacher. 

Aristotle sucks. I could make a fruitful academic career in demonstrating that.