[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

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The player scrapbooks forum is literally a place for writers to warm-up, brainstorm, keep little scraps of notes, or just post things to encourage themselves and each other. Each player can feel free to create their own thread - one per account - and use them accordingly.

[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Kit Rowan on July 6th, 2011, 10:11 am

Someone Not Like Yourself

Sometimes, when writing or roleplaying, you come across something that makes you aware that you were missing something perfect and essential to playing your character, something that you simply did not consider. Before I found Mizahar, I thought I'd gotten the whole female character thing down. It was an incredibly simple concept, I thought. We all think the same way, don't we? Different social pressures sure, but we're all the same.

And I was right of course, about the mind, but I forgot to remember that there are other things that come into play. About a year ago I came across this little excerpt from a favorite series of mine:

It's another in the long list of things that Martians hardly ever think about: Almost any woman knows that almost any man is stronger than she is. Oh, men know they're stronger, but they seldom actually stop to think through the implications of that simple reality - implications that are both unnerving and virtually omnipresent, if you aren't a Martian. You think about life differently when you know that half the people you see have the physical power to do things to you, regardless of whether you intend to allow it - and even implied threats of physical violence have to be taken seriously.

-Jim Butcher, Side Jobs

It took me a while to process that. I was aware of it in the nebulous way you are when you see a thing but do not examine it, but it was only when I read that when I really got it.

For me, it's a humbling lesson in what you can overlook when you try to write for someone not like yourself. The little essential, omnipresent pieces that need to be put together. If you are certain about what you're writing, you are doing it wrong. If you do not question, then you will fall on your face. And even if you do, those might not be the right questions, and always be wary.

This goes beyond creating characters; it's a huge problem with people in general, as I'm sure we're all aware.

I'm afraid that I'm not just here to talk about writing here, but also because dumb people are being dumb on the internet. I'm not entirely sure how I found this article, honestly. I remember a cup of darkness of and chanting in an elder tongue. There may or may not have been a virgin sacrifice. After that everything gets cloudy.

~o~o~o~

To appease you I will ramble about writing and Kit for a while.

The funny thing about my creative process is how incredibly wishy-washy it is. I am constantly cutting my ideas and others that I come across and like to careful pieces and putting them together in different places, different ways. 'How would this work?' A little creative Dr. Frankenstein, if you will. I like to imagine that others are like that too. It makes me feel a little less like an illegal story doctor who lost their license when they were found sewing a romance head onto a noir body.

If you guys heard where Kit came from, you'd laugh. Or maybe just be disappointed.

I had a hypnotist, Till. He was really dull all told, and while I could have saved him I did not want to. But before I threw him out into the trash, someone suggested getting Illusionism for the guy. I looked it up, liked it and started writing an application for it.

But then I thought, no, this gnosis does not fit his character. He does not this God. And I, unfaithful RPer as always, wondered, 'what kind of character would fit?'

Immediately I thought 'One of the Inverted!' And started building up a history with Kit as a traveling trouper, whose caravan was burned to the ground near Ravok, who dabbled in morphing and Reimancy as well as acrobatics.

Now, I can hear you groaning from here, or thinking that you are glad that I knew better than to use that in the final, because we have this thing about cliches here. But too often we forget that cliches are what they are because once, authors used them so well that they were buried into our consciousness, and if treated with respect and skill they can be just as influential today. I chose not too, though. It didn't fit her character. Or rather, it would have been a huge defining moment in her life, and I didn't want to put anything that big in yet. Wanted that sort of trauma to happen in RP.

She was a seeker, a chaser. Seeking herself, seeking what made her, seeking what she would be. Keeping her in Alvadas, starring out her window, wondering why her family did not take her along where they went, was more in line with what I was looking for in shaping her as a person. The trauma of losing a family you know and love would have changed her into something entirely different than someone wondering what it was like to have one.

Her father was still a wizard, and he still gave her Reimancy, but I cut out morphing. This is because morphing is a thing that is learned through dedication and time, through intrinsically understanding what you are doing, while I wanted Kit to be an almost accidental mage. Reimancy was perfect for this, because it is not a thing you are left to discover but something that is done to you.

And now, with her mother still alive out there somewhere, I feel like I've given Kit unfinished business. That woman seems to make life difficult for everyone who loves or wants to love her without trying. Which I am proud of.

The concept of her mother and her father has not changed much, even though her history has, quite a bit. From the very beginning I'd written up a little story about how her mother met her father. His life was in his duty (what duty? Who knows. I don't) but his heart was with Kit's mother. In her heart of hearts, Kit believes that he wilted and died because he left his old life behind.

He's always been a desperate sort of man in my mind; great once, respected once, but now all of that is gone, and all he has left is a woman who he can't understand and a daughter he barely knows. And what a stranger this little girl is to him! With patchwork clothes, circular speech and bold person. Even though she has barely seen her mother she is her mother's child; grown in Alvadas, the home of Illusion, and even though her face is so much like his she did not seem his daughter.

I imagine that was why he gave Kit the 'gift' of Reimancy, because he knew that he was dying and wanted to leave some piece of himself in her. And he did this in a way that terribly hurt and traumatized his daughter. And may have doomed her to madness of her own sometime down the line.

Wizards ho!

I also have no idea where her mother came from. I have a general idea of her features, because she gave a bunch of those to Kit, I know she worships Ionu and that she has a brother of sorts in Alvadas.

I know that while the man who loved her grew sickly, her life burned bright and sure. I know she is as fleeting as the wind, and that Kit could no more hug her than the sun. Not because she could not reach her, but because it would be wrong.

I know she is free in a way that most people in Mizahar are too shy to dream of, and that Kit does not remember what her face looks like.

I really don't want to make her NPC and play her myself, because I don't think I could do her any justice. I'm content to leave her as a figment at the edge of Kit's mind, more an idea of a person than an actual one.

That's all for now.
Last edited by Kit Rowan on July 23rd, 2011, 6:21 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Unless Otherwise Stated, Expect Kit To Have Already Disguised Herself With Illusionism As 'Shy' In Every Ravok Thread.
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Kit Rowan
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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Kit Rowan on July 15th, 2011, 7:23 pm

"As events in wartime have clearly shown, our mentality is distinguished by the shameless naïveté with which we judge our enemy, and in the judgment we pronounce upon him we unwittingly reveal our own defects: we simply accuse our enemy of our own unadmitted faults. We see everything in the other, we criticize and condemn the other, we even want to improve and educate the other."
- C.G. Jung

I need to get to work on Miza things, but instead I found myself writing this. Well, it'll get done in its own time I figure.

For now, more comics of the web variety!

Freakangels
Twenty-three years ago, twelve strange children were born in england at the exact same moment.

Six years ago, the world ended.

This is the story of what happens next.

Written and drawn by actual professionals from the industry of comic books it's no surprise that Freakangels is good. At its heart, when you tear away the supernatural and the after-the-end setting what you're left with is a bunch of different people trying to learn to deal with each other and mostly falling on their faces in the process.

WARNING ADULT CONTENT
Pictures! :
Image

Templar, Arizona

Hard to pin this one down. It starts off as the story of a kid making a living as a writer in a run-down pit of a place, in you-know-where. But as time goes by you start to understand that that's not it at all; it's the story of the place and all the people in it. No real focus. It's twisted, complicated and weird. And I love it.

WARNING ADULT CONTENT
Images! :
Image

Gunnerkrigg Court

Don't be discouraged by the first page; it is weird looking at the beginning, but the art improves incredibly as time goes on. Gunnerkrigg Court is a strange sort of winding tale, a series of serial chapters about a girl gone to school in a place called the Court. It's a weird tale of supernatural oddness and the human heart.
Examples! :
How it begins!
Image

How it looks later!
Image

Girl Genius
Do you like mad scientists?

I like mad scientists.

This is a comic about mad scientists!
.jpgs! :
Image
Unless Otherwise Stated, Expect Kit To Have Already Disguised Herself With Illusionism As 'Shy' In Every Ravok Thread.
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Kit Rowan
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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Kit Rowan on July 17th, 2011, 11:37 pm

It's a strange fact of life that every foreign language teacher (except, I assume Latin, though some may be time travelers), no matter the grade, is either from a foreign country or has spent long periods in one. Largely, it is a curiosity. But the fun part is that they bring stories back home with them. The best stories, it seems, comes from other places.

(I still remember when my father told me about when a man in Jamaica came up to him, trying to sell him a plant of weed 'this high!')

I do not think it is because other places are inheritly more interesting. But outsiders have a gift of sorts; in a foreign place, they are made children again, everything once more strange and wonderful. And that is part of what makes a good story, after all.

My high school teacher was unmistakably white. He was pale as a sheet, wore a fancy suit to class every day and talked with a stutter that made him endearing and impossible to take seriously. But he had traveled extensively through Mexico, visited the parts both good and bad, and in idle talk he spoke of how many places had irregular power; could only function half the time.

But oddly enough, the story that sticks with me was one where he visited a city in Mexico with his mother.

He was with her, walking the street, and spotted two adorable little girls. She puffed up, smiled, walked up to the pair of them and asked "¿Cuántos anos tiene?" Behind her, my teacher began to freak out.

What she meant to ask was ¿Cuántos años tiene? Or, 'how many years do you have?' It sounds odd in English, but it is the way to ask for age. She didn't know much Spanish; but she wanted to speak to these girls, there aren't a lot of phrases people who don't really know a language know, but in Spanish that one is one of the ones in the guide book.

But that was not what she actually said.

The two little girls giggled and looked at each other. One of them held up two fingers and said 'dos,' and they scurried away.

A few minutes later his mother learned that años meant years, and anos meant anuses.


My college professor, if you want to use that word, was something a bit more odd. He hailed from Spain, but he had studied in Britain, and had a British accent. The man was a grad student, regularly came to class hungover and developed a code to keep from getting in trouble when talking about sex and alcohol—Excuse me; holding hands and lemonade—more than once he stopped in the middle of a lesson and scratched his head over how bloody wrong the book was, then taught us the proper way and promised it wouldn't get us in trouble on the tests, and conspired with us against the evil head of the Spanish 1000 department.

I liked him. He was very funny. That is enough to make me forgive just about anything in a teacher. This is probably a flaw, but I can't bring myself to correct it.

He told us all how much better they were at partying in Europe, and about how his father thought that Portuguese was just Spanish with 'dismo' added to everything, and what happened when a police pulled him over on that side of the border. How his parents later somehow survived and continue to survive in Paris without knowing a word of French.

It's strange; one of the defining moments of my cruise to Jamica later on wasn't so much the rides, attractions, or walking up rapids, but when I saw my father pushing through a small sea of vendors as they cried out, trying to sell their nicknacks, little carved statues and beaded necklaces. His face was stone, and he moved the yell, demanding, pleading throng as if they were not there at all.

Beats hearing about who slighted who and did what where in town, that's for sure.

I don't think this Scrapbook actually had a point.
Unless Otherwise Stated, Expect Kit To Have Already Disguised Herself With Illusionism As 'Shy' In Every Ravok Thread.
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Kit Rowan
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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Kit Rowan on July 24th, 2011, 6:18 am

Growing up is weird.

Hold up, wait, don't touch that backspace key just yet. There is actually a story behind this post, and it is not a sad one. Not a happy one either, but that's the truth when it comes to growing up. Things change, and whether for the better or worse no one can really be certain. It's also a story about roleplay.

I wasn't a particularly popular kid in middle school. By which I mean I had a small coterie of sneering boys who called me retarded every chance they got. I got put in special classes, you see, at first because I stuttered, and after that because I did not make friends. Not really.

Every day I would go to school and after lunch go up to a room with kids that shouted and screamed, whined and hollered. I met with who they liked to call my 'speech therapist' once a week, and when I did not . . . well. I ended up in academic lab.

It's code you see, one of those innocent words that isn't so innocent at all.

Study hall is where you go and lay out your books and homework and do them. Or at least, that's what they'd tell you. Academic lab is where they send other students, the students on three kinds of meds and didn't take any of them. The ones with attitude problems. On good days I huddled small as I could and picked a Ray Bradbury book off the shelves. On bad ones I put my head down and tried to chew through my arm in frustration.

What can I say. Some kids had stress balls. I would have thrown it away had they given one to me. Ironic that the worry about appearing strange had me biting down on myself instead of squeezing a small ball.

In middle school it becomes so much easier to understand the world, and so much harder to fit yourself in. You become hyper-aware of where the world wants you to be. Down in study hall maybe, smiling, laughing, having fun. Not huddled in a book while some kid you barely know screams at a teacher, or pointedly looking at nothing but what's right there in front of you while kids tell me exactly what is wrong with me.

You see, words hurt worse than any other thing. Because no matter who's saying the words, after a while you start to believe they're true.

This is backgrounds. The beginning. Me, dumb and young and pure, crippled with worry and anxiety, convinced every person who had ever said they liked me was lying and that I was scum of the earth. It was not a healthy thing, I'm sure people would tell me. I'm sure some of you would tell me. I retreat into the internet.

Roleplaying was not my thing, any more than writing was my thing. I was not exactly very good at it. But for some reason I clung to it. And I started an account and a roleplay forum dedicated to a franchise I'd taken to, six years ago.

What forum? I won't tell. Don't ask. It's embarrassing.

I'll be honest it was a little silly, but I couldn't recognize that. But it seemed amazing to me. The whole thing. I loved it, and I was so nervous about it. Some of you may know how completely insecure I was when I first came here. How insecure I remain, to this day. That was nothing. I did not know what to expect. I made a character, and made some friends who were about as good as I was. Meaning, well, not very good at all.

And we looked up to other roleplayers. To moderators and their characters. And when we did, we found actual quality. Not just the sort of wonder that comes to you when you're young and everything looks amazing. It was actually good. I saw that, we saw that, and everything snapped into perspective.

I wanted to be good enough to be worth playing with them.

I got better, very quickly. The difference between zero and one is incredible and we crossed that threshold. People liked to roleplay with me. They really did. By the end of the school year I was no longer on anyone's shit list. I was not great, but for a quick thread? It was enough. And I had friends who'd climbed that distance with me. And make no mistake; it was friendship. Not just the shallow company that people use the internet to fill, but the madness of teenagers trying to keep each other sane, and making it out more or less okay.

More I knew about writing, real writing, the more I knew how shitty I was. The more I spotted my mistakes. Sure I knew grammar but that was simple. It was easy. It was the wooden planks that made the houses, and my houses were all wrong. But I loved it. My keyboard kept me company, my characters came alive in my mind. I won't say writing saved me. But in those years when everything seemed terrible and vicious, writing made me. And roleplay gave it to me.

I became a moderator on that site, did any number of dumb things.

The oldest of us were in college. The youngest were in high school or earlier. And stories got more mature. I got into reading, I tossed older ones for new. My friend - because it was friend, singular now - worked out plots with me. We created character with real depth. And as we grew up, we saw the bones of the system we created in our childhood and decided to replace them with better ones, piece by piece.

And I was in high school, still in the same dumb class, still gritting my teeth but not biting on my arm quite as often, and writing in my notebook about what my character would do when they got home, and trying to draw something that turned out just about as good as you'd expect.

Admins and moderators came and went and brought their drama with them, but the roleplay lived, survived and thrived years after their creators were gone. I joined to escape reality, but five years later I was writing a story about a boy infiltrating a labor camp and enduring the worst of what they had to endure.

And I moved like a ghost through high school, no one really talking to me, but no one teasing me. Better, but not great, but not torment either. I was thinking about stories all day; I wanted to try NaNoWriMo, I took a creative writing class. I stole time in the library during lunch to check my PM box and watch for new posts.

The premise of the site was silly. It was absurd and more than a little dumb. It was the sort of site that bunch of kids made when they realized how much they didn't like whoever was in charge of the fansite. It was as dumb as you could get, it was them. And it changed with them, grew up with them. I came along halfway in, and rode the wave up.

I went to college, smiling because nobody would know me and there were too many people to really shun me, and because there was no academic lab. I wrote a NaNoWriMo that went past November and into early February that was at least eighty thousand words long.

I created a force of prisoners bound by supernatural oath to serve, until death. I took charge of a nation on the Sand and continued a plot about assassination, religious fanaticism and a hungry desert God.

And I grew up. But, the fun thing about playing on site with other children is that they grow up too, and the roleplay evolves along with them. I put my fingers into it, changed it. Tried to make it better. And it changed right back, turned me into something that could make it better.

Six years of that.

It made me into what I am today. It saved me from my self-pity and gave me something to look forward to. It gave me a goal, and a purpose, whoever silly and small that might have been. And now I can't imagine really enjoying anything more than writing silly stories. That's the truth.

It's a niche roleplay, and that niche is getting smaller, so I found some other place where I could create, where I could find a place to play. And I found some stranger world; a setting that I didn't tolerate for the RP, but that was fascinating on its own. Worlds and magics and cities that were fascinating on their own. And roleplayers that knew what they were doing.

But though I told myself I probably would, I didn't leave that place. I hung in the background, a spectator only rarely interfering. I spent a quarter of my life there, growing there. And while Mizahar is incredible and I can't imagine ever leaving it by choice, there's something just as incredible about a place that grew up as you grew up, no matter how silly or ridiculous it must have been at first. Something about a place that helped make me who I am, and the people who walked with me down that path.

It's a good thing. And it's something that's brought all of us here, and kept us all intertwined. It is people, and writing, together. And while nothing is perfect, it is at least immortal, and beautiful. And if you haven't been changed by it yet, I hope you are one day, and I hope you will love it as much as I do.
Last edited by Kit Rowan on July 24th, 2011, 7:17 am, edited 1 time in total.
Unless Otherwise Stated, Expect Kit To Have Already Disguised Herself With Illusionism As 'Shy' In Every Ravok Thread.
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Kit Rowan
Acrobat, Sorceress, Rogue
 
Posts: 501
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Joined roleplay: April 29th, 2011, 11:37 pm
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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Darren on July 24th, 2011, 6:50 am

I don't read too many of these, skim even but when I saw the jist of what you had to say I went ahead and reread the whole thing. This piece deserves that at least. A very lovely story on how RP affects one for sure.
The original PC of Miria and Bolivar

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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Bedlam on August 25th, 2011, 8:30 pm

Warning Of Fickleness

Usually I don't like to scrapbook as an ST but this only makes sense, so I'll do it this time. First of all I'd like to start by apologizing that I haven't really been on the ball for a bit in terms ST work and playing Kit; bound to be frustrating for you - some more than others. (I'm sorry Ifran. : ( ) But more important is that I don't foresee that changing anytime this Fall.

Last Spring I wasn't on Mizahar, but I was stilling RPing elsewhere and was in my second semester of college. I RPed tabbed out of my notes on my laptop and started reading people's posts while the teacher was speaking, I wrote posts in the late of night when huge projects were looming on the horizon, and I did it all under the impression that I could breeze through and come home at the end with passable grades.

Instead, I earned a semester of academic probation and a pair of very traumatized parents. Now that school has come up again, I need to get my shit together. I need to be able to properly orient my schedule around my assignments and studies and keep my GPA above the waterline.

What does this mean for Mizahar?

It means I'm not going to be incredibly active until I sort things out. Probably take a week or two. I'm not going to up and leave - Bedlam will be grading Alvadas threads, though it might take a while for me to get to them and I will answer PMs promptly like a good ST, but development is gonna take a while and my moderated threads will be slow. And on the character side, even if it takes a bit I will still post with Kit in my threads.

Don't take this as anything more than a statement of intent; something put out there to inform. I have a very light load for school this year, but I took that for granted in the spring and it bit me in the ass. The only issue is that I won't know where Mizahar can fit until I've figured out how everything else fits together.

People have always said that I have problems when it comes to priorities and RP has been up way higher than it should be. I'm in love with it. Nothing will keep me away from it for very long. But my schedule is gonna have to change and I'm not sure how yet, and until I know where Miza belongs in it I won't be able to give it all the dedication it deserves.

I figured I owed people an explanation. For people who are asking themselves that question but know better or are too polite to actually voice it. I've been out of sorts, and that's not gonna stop right away, but I'll be back in full force sooner or later - hopefully sooner but I've never been an optimist - and I will bring my madness with me.
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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Bedlam on October 21st, 2011, 6:45 pm

Magic
Why I Love To Hate It.
And A Complaint

Personal magic is, basically, strip mining the soul for power. Djed is more than just a mana pool for a wizard to draw from; in Mizahar, it is the Djed of the leaf that gives it its leafness. The Djed of a squirrel gives it its squirrelness. When a human uses their Djed, they are paying for it by giving up some small or large piece of their humanity. The same goes for any other race.

Magic is all about free will, including the right to mutilate your own spirit for fun and profit. Projectors literally sever bits of - and sometimes their entire - soul from their body to manipulate the world around it. Leechers eat the essence of other things, and mangle the body of the user in the process, and to learn it they must find some way to completely drain their soul of Djed, to the point just before death. The soul of a would-be reimancer must be violated and spiritually raped by the Res of an existing practitioner until a bit of that power is lodged so deep that it stays with them for the rest of their life.

This has a point, I promise.

Every time a wizard draws on their Djed they twist their souls, regardless of whether they're a megalomaniac reimancer or quiet aurist. Understandably, the whole of Mizahar, even other wizards, are wary of practitioners at best, or ready to start a lynch mob at worst. And yet, all the magnificent things that has ever existed in Mizahar have existed with the help of magic.

Even in the greatest of the most epic of our quests in 511 AV, our characters are chasing the glory of the times before the Valterrian. They hunt Tallshade's artifacts, try to pick up the mess Sagallius' ascension created. Armies of people whose numbers would boggle and outnumber present minds clashed and died over pointless hills. With magic came glory, with magic came power, because magic is power.

This is what makes it so wonderful. We give these horrible tools to broken people in a broken world and watch them struggle upward. In using magic they sacrifice what they are in pursuit of what they want, and we want them to use it, because we love them and so we want them to succeed. And we dread their using it, because we love them and in doing so they twist themselves.

Nothing is interesting without an analogue we can relate to; magic is, to us, just another kind of power. Like money, like fame, like talent. But this is a fantasy world, and everything is bigger here, the risks are greater, and the rewards are ever more grand; it is more in every way possible. A wizard could rise to fame and become the next Tallshade. They could descend to madness and be dragged away and hung in a cage from a tower until they starve.

It took me a long time to decide that Kit should keep her reimancy. After all, it is the most popular magic on Mizahar. And, after all, what point was there in giving her magic? She's an acrobat, not a wizard. But no, I decided. Her presence, her character, her passions and desires are all threatened by this magic, haunting her in the back of her mind. Always tempting her, and in using it she would destroy, piece by piece, the acrobat that I spent so much time putting together. The thrill of people watching her perform, the raw joy in the movement of her body, the hesitant affection she had for her father, her absolute love for Alvadas and Ionu; these are the things that are threatened by her magic.

And that, I thought, is why I had to keep it, because when a thing we care for is threatened, it matters that much more.

If you take away the risk, you take away the meaning. You take away the very purpose of the thing; it ceases to be a threat, it ceases to be a worry. It's like giving your character a vast fortune and saying all it dose is let them buy whatever they want, that in being famous everyone loves them and kisses their feet and nothing bad comes of it at all. It's cheap, and whenever someone does it they do far worse than just cheapening their character; they cheapen magic as a whole, and they cheapen everyone who has risked their character's sanity through their struggle for power through magic.

It is beyond frustrating when someone tries to treat magic like some ordinary trade, as though it weren't taboo, as though the consequences of practicing it did not loom over their shoulders constantly. Suddenly, Djed is just a mana bar that you need to stop spending at the end to keep from that unfortunate overgiving. Suddenly, characters are emerging from what should have been a life changing experience with only skill increases and ridiculous magical talents.

It is hard to pinpoint, it is hard to accuse. There are no nailed-down signs, and doubtless we have all faced the temptation of making a character stronger for strength's sake; but make no mistake, this is wrong. In doing it you not only demean everyone else who uses magic in the game and support the stereotype of wizards as stock characters who only exist for the power they hold, but you demean your own character. Make them less.

No one cares about battle. They care about the character in that battle. No one cares about clean, neat successes; they care about failures, about bittersweet victories, about success after long, difficult conflicts with many precious things sacrificed in the process. And yes, that includes personal growth. That includes training. It is what our lives are made of. Even if the end is victory, and you know it, if the path to it is easy then there's just no point.
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[Kit's Scrapbook] — The Open Book

Postby Kit Rowan on July 16th, 2013, 6:04 pm

An Apology Letter
Maybe Too Late

I've talked about this privately with some select people, but I've never really gone out and done a general, public apology. For leaving, I mean. Back in the day. I'd feel a little guilty about leaving my PC hanging out to dry with her thread partners just sort of floating around in limbo, but that at least I could deal with. Kit is mine. I can deal with abandoning her with little issue. What's torn me up is abandoning Bedlam, my ST account, because they were important to many more people than just me.

Come school time, I flaked out hardcore with Bedlam. My thread gradings fell behind. My modded threads fell behind, my everything fell behind I. I set a deadline, apologized for my business and promised to resume work after that date passed and sailed right on through it without speeding it up again, let threads hang in the air for weeks and weeks, and I think some poor decisions and mad guesswork on my part may have led to an eventual housing and payment clarification by our good founders.

Now, a lot of the people I screwed over by leaving I may never get a chance to actually say I'm sorry too, because by the time I'd gotten the spine to come back, and by the time I'd gotten the spine to actually post this, they'd already gone. But still I kept on putting this off, cause I thought it'd be awkward, thought maybe if I came back and stayed quiet it would just sort of fade away, stop having happened. Well, I'm tired of that bullshit. I wanna clear my head of this cloud.

I'm sorry Eridamus, whose plot with me I never even got off the ground. I'm sorry Victor, for never finishing the thread in which you got your job. I'm sorry everyone in Alvadas who waited in vain for me to grade their threads. I'm sorry Fallacy, for phoning it in when Alvadas was getting to be its busiest. I'm sorry Goss, for letting you down as an ST when you said you had faith in me. I'm sorry whoever my addled mind has allowed me to forget in the meantime, for whatever neglect I've done to you. I'm sorry everyone, for dropping off the site and not coming back for years when my ST name turned gray instead of just owning up to my mistakes when I made them.

And I'm sorry Alvadas, for not giving you the love you deserved.

That's really all that I can say.
Unless Otherwise Stated, Expect Kit To Have Already Disguised Herself With Illusionism As 'Shy' In Every Ravok Thread.
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Kit Rowan
Acrobat, Sorceress, Rogue
 
Posts: 501
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Joined roleplay: April 29th, 2011, 11:37 pm
Race: Human
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