Thanatopic

I understand what you're asking, how exactly does the 'battleground' affect the game itself. I'm sorry to say though that it is difficult to explain. It all has to do with the oneness. This entire thing is a roleplaying endeavor, so the effects would have to be roleplayed out. I'll try to answer though. It's more of a psychological advantage than anything, like home field advantage in advantage in a sport. When Dream of the Endless challenged the Demon for his lost helm, the Demon chose a night-club in the depths of hell. It put Dream in an unfamiliar situation, in the end though Dream ended up winning. The location is an actual physical location, not a place where the worded forms are presented. If you were to challenge me I would choose Fenth's game. It offers no strength or weakness to the forms themselves. It is however where my friends may gather and support me, while at the same time jeering and distracting my opponent.

Timeless Shot. Who am I? More importantly, who are you? Where does the beginning become the end? With the strength of my desire I name thee. What is it that makes a man who he is? When does one decide what the future portends? In this exact moment, I strike thee. Why do you fight? I have made your death true. How do you stop what never began? At the price of my life, I claim thee. I tried very hard to make this one fit the context of the spell in form, not only in content. The three stanzas are indicative of the three components listed in the the first level of the spell. Initiation, Contact, as well as Effect. I hope that the poem is effective in it's purpose; this one was much harder than the previous one.

[i]OOC[/i] [i]I don't think that this particular forum is the absolute correct place for this topic, I do feel however that it is the closest. I didn't invent this idea, I am however implementing it because it is a game I enjoy. Hope you feel the same. [/i] The Oldest Game The name is deceiving, for this is more than just a game. When all the worlds, and all the planes were but formless mist, this is how Powers claimed their superiority. How can that without a shape, without a form, test their strength against one another. The obvious answer is with influence, how we mere mortals are affected by their presence and their promises. How then, before men and monsters, was dominance established? That is how The Oldest Game arose. It is a contest of ideas, of dreams, of natures, and of innate power. Blows are never laid, fingers are never curled into fists and steel is never shown. Instead, in that ephemeral twilight realm, ideas are given form, and combatants are always shifting. It is a difficult thing to explain, if you wish to learn, This one will show you. Worry not, you risk nothing but your pride....at least the first time. Do not forget though, this is the way the first wars were waged, and idle sparring is saved for those dearly trusted. As all things, this form is not without it's rules. One must be challenged, or issue a challenge; the challenge must then be accepted. It is by the giving and acceptance of the challenge that the conflict is given weight, given life. The Challenger strikes first, the Challenged however chooses where the combat will take place Strength is not measured from sword-arms and speed, instead from innate oneness and wisdom of the world. Strikes are not born of steel and magery, rather from ones nature. If you find it cryptic, This one apologizes, but there are few ways to actually give word to The Oldest game; to do so risks oversimplification. The attacks are given life by a particular diction. " I am the Stag, Elusive and Silent". In response " I am the Hunter, Trap-setting, Stag-Hunting". This is the simplest of forms, a training form really in which one who is not familiar may be made familiar. The forms must begin with what is literal, The stag and the hunter. As combat rages, more abstract concepts may be used. The speed at which the abstract may take form is directly related to the power of the Combatant. To attempt a form beyond your ken, beyond your strength, is frightfully dangerous at best. On the topic of combat forms. The strength of one's form is directly proportional to how in tune that form is with the Combatant. This is a difficult thing to word. If a man is Brash, impulsive, and passionate, then his forms should suit. Constraining forms, binding forms, are lacking a oneness with him, and as such are weak and easily broken. Victory is simple. One must yield. One may yield actively, declaring his own defeat. One may also yield by the inability to present a a form that effectively counters their opponents form, or by the inability to present a form in a timely manner. OOC: These rules are difficult to enforce, by the very nature of the game. It was originally written by Neil Gaiman in the graphic novel series The Sandman. As I wrote, it is intended for Gods, Power, and Principalities to do battle. By their nature they are bound by rules; as such the 'rules' for this game are just an expression of the way battle actually took place between these entities. If you wish to engage in this form of combat with me, I would love to oblige; however, please come with a sense of honor, fair-play, and respect for the game.

The carrot on a stick is the only method that proves effective in changing the hearts and minds of people. Offer something people want in, in exchange for the thing you want. Personally I find that fact disappointing ,but whatever, that's a different discussion. So , offer up weekly bracket tournaments. One may only enter if their profile is balanced, each MPlevel has it's own bracket. Winner gets a spell-doc, silver coins, gold coins, well aged creatures, or a neat little RP item. This would serve your cause in a two major ways. One, it will encourage people to be balanced, since it has a reward beyond the obvious experience bonus. This will start slowly of course, so I'd have weaker prizes until you really get registrations going. Two, it will create a social forum in which those of like minds can meet and exchange knowledge and ideas. This is the real 'subversive' part of it, the part that digs into hearts and minds and changes the way people are. Also, it allows for an interesting roleplay avenue, something that is difficult to find believe it or not. It feels like unless I want to roleplay as someones father or son, or in some other way work myself into a preexisting roleplay 'clique' , i find myself sitting idle a lot, clicking names and seeing whether it's worth attacking them or not. So there's my suggestion for you Willem, and I'll give it whatever backing I can. I have little in the way of rewards, but my character can offer up manpower, and a voice. I'm not balanced yet, but It's something I've been striving for, though when I just get bored and idle in Marble Dale or The Gazebo of equilibirum it makes it hard.

Group Scattering. I am the rock against the river, and I am the stone against the Storm. Wind and flood, break against me and find themselves alone. The one against the many, The solace of the rock, the Silence of the stone; Gnash your teeth, Bare your steel, But each of you, stand alone.

I've been delving into short stories mostly; most novels that I find just don't hold my interest for some reason. Short stories though...I effin' love. Lately it's been a Steampunk Anthology i keep picking up, and a few anthologies by Stephen R. Donaldson (The Thomas Covenant Chronicles if you're familiar) The last novel I read was The Stand, great read if you've yet to check it out. Also, if you like Gaiman you should check out his graphic Novel series, The Sandman. It's -at least- as good as American Gods.

[u]An as of yet Untitled Work of Poetry[/u] I want a woman who smells like the storm. No, I want a woman who surrounds me like a storm. A woman who can light up the darkness of my night. A woman who can strike the tinder of my heart, and set it, like a wildfire, ablaze. A woman who can fill the raucous silence of my mind with the peal of her name. A woman who can fall against my skin, at once cool and refreshing. Give me Love, the unremitting love the Sky gives the Earth, And I will soak you up like the Ground does the Rain.

Maybe I'm out of line. However, I find it quite telling that while there are interesting things happening in the MD world, that this is the most active thread today.

I would imagine shortly. The shop is empty, and I think fenrir's been working on Avatars.

I've been reading some different historic Documents, and these are a few things that I've come upon. It was covered by spoiler tags, but it was a discussion on the adventure log, so if i'm overstepping my bounds please just delete this post. Either way i'll spoiler tag it. Please bear with me, i can be frenetic at times [spoiler] I read that shades have no individuality, Incapable of having unique experiences is the way it was put. The comment on the circular shape referring to balance is key to where I'm taking all of this. I think the returning of the moon, and inherently night, also plays a part into everything that's going on. So you have a creature, that is First among those that have no individuality, their commander. It could be conceived then that this creature is in fact the individuality, that all the other shades are bits of her. In the previous adventure log story wasn't there often the description of her leaving black liquid in her wake. So what then would happen when the First among a faceless mob, what may in fact be the heart of that mob, the reflection in every mirror; what happens when this First is taken by a creature that is thought to embody balance and change? I think it is also key to note that the Traveler leaves dust from what he destroys, but the shade sentinel merely disappeared; a white cube was left where it stood. Something without boundaries to break cannot Grow. So I do not believe that the shade sentinel is 'trapped' any more than any of us are held by our boundaries. The moon and the night have returned to this world, and i don't believe it an accident that the Traveler appeared shortly thereafter. In the night we all become faceless, we all lose identity to those around us in the darkness. However, at the same time, in the lonely embrace of the dark when the world is still, we can come to know ourselves better than in the hustle and shine of the day. Is it not fitting then that the creatures which so closely resemble night would undergo a change all for the sake of balance. ? Is it not so unlikely that the first among them, the one whom I believe is the picture that is reflected among the lack of individuality, would be the catalyst; again, for the sake of balance? [/spoiler]

'but memories can be easily intercepted by someone that can understand time.' (ooc) There are two major viewpoints on time, at least as far as I've come to understand it. There are those that live constrained by time, experiencing each moment as it comes and goes. "past" and "future" are just concepts to one who's life is measured in moments, the only real thing is now. That's all we, as mortals, ever experience, is right now. We remember the past, and ponder the future, but the present is all we get at any given point. This is the impetus for us actually doing anything, because we feel the moments slipping by, and we know that we are only given so many moments. You could extend this to immortality as well, to some extent. But not Omnipotence, or more Importantly omniscience. It's often said that time is like a river, always flowing; I however have never found that particular metaphor fitting. I prefer to think of time as a book, probably because I'm a religious man. This leads into the other view point on time; the one who is not bound by it's constraints. You can think of this as one who wrote the book of reality, or one who is reading it. They can flip through the pages as they will, open the book wheresoever they desire. The -entirety- of time is there to behold, and can be gleaned as one wishes. So, if one were to have this outsiders perspective of time, which is entirely possible for one who has come to understand Time, they would be able to 'read' something they were'nt there to see, and intercept the memory by bearing witness to the event. This however is problematic, because perception has as much to with reality as fact. In regards to divination, there are also two camps. That, however, is an entirely different discussion; as such it has no bearing on this thread.

I wish I understood more of what you were saying. I started playing a long time ago, left for a bit, and came back, so I still feel like a bit of a newb when it comes to all of this. The end of the previous post brings up a very good point which behooves all people to listen to; you can't do it all yourself. The people that you feel are on the same page are the people you should be working with, that's definitely the ....i can't think of the word for it. The finesse approach I guess is the best way to put. But as to your metaphor? In the middle of a shouting crowd? You find the person who's being listened to the most, the one who's spouting the bullshit, and you punch them in the mouth. That's the direct approach. A Leader must be a lion, and a leader must be a fox. The concept of hiding you have is admirable as well, and it puzzles me that you called your view of MD 'selfish'. There's a short story by Steven R Donaldson that meets this matter quite well, it's called "The Daughter of Regals". I recommend you find it and read it, I'd imagine it would suit your tastes. I can't promise that I'll go searching for the secrets you've littered and hidden; I am a bull-headed man and prefer to make my own way with strong words and stronger actions. I do however admire the...again the word eludes me. The subtlety i suppose, with which you craft your world. In short, do not lose hope; do not be afraid to change either.

There always seemed to be a distance between the man Driftwood, and those that were near him. Amongst salons and throngs alike there was something that hovered around him, shivered about him that kept all others at bay. There were, of course, times where what could be called a guard was dropped. That term however, is completely improper. One could ask The Archivist Pamplemousse, or perhaps the Pirate-Captain Cryxus ( though admittedly, it has been some time since that one has seen it). Ask of them how his gaze sparkles when the dreadlocks are pulled away, or how that same gaze glowers and smolders when the tendrils hide his face. He smiled softly, one of the moments where he was himself. His wide grin spoke of the first breath of spring, and his gentle look whispered of secrets to be told if only he were asked. " I Was born in Loreroot, though those days are so far behind me that they could be called another life". As always, he was dressed for utility. Tanned-hide leggings that had seen him through so much, and the leather overcoat that showed his chest and arms. An innumerable number of pouches, sewn on pockets, and satchels adorned his figure, and it was here that his hands found themselves. Big tanned hands with calloused fingers, a matching pair that each set themselves to different purposes. One moved with practiced grace to a well worn pouch; pulled from it was his pipe, splinter, and leaf. The other searched frenetically, patting some pockets, fingering through pouches. Throughout the entire ordeal his eyes never left yours, his soft grin unwavering, if a bit apologetic. Finally he pulled out a piece of red silk, a ribbon really, and tied his hair back with one deft hand. " Thank you for your indulgence, Sit if you wish.". His customary spot was by the fire, two well worn upholstered chairs both facing the flame. Before he found his seat he lit the splinter in the licking light, puffing his leaf-packed pipe to life. " Yes, I can't say as I remember my parents faces. I do, however, remember running barefoot through the woods. I had no friends, I couldn't tell you why; I just preferred to stalk and run through the woods silently I suppose. I worshiped at the altar of Wolf and Stag. I had seen enough summers to call myself a man, had my first shave and offered the shaved stubble to the moon as was custom. That is my last true memory among my people*. A few had gathered, it was rare he spoke so much in one sitting. He, however, showed no notice; he was lost in the story. " I was hunting for the first time as a man, with bow and knife I stalked Hart and Fox. The moon had long since past it's zenith, a full moon that was unnaturally bright that evening. I remember believing it watched me...how true our idle dreams can become. In my wand'rings i happened upon a cave. I cannot explain my fixation on it, but for so many heartbeats I stood and considered it. Every time i ventured to walk past it, my heart would scream at me to turn back. In my own time i entered into that dark; naught but keen eyes and sharp ears to lead me into it's depths". It was odd to watch his idle perfection. As he sat and spoke he was at a perfect rest. His spine was straight and his hands evenly on each thigh; perfect balance at all times. Each puff on his burning pipe sent forth a perfect circle, each in turn concentric to the one before it. " The depths of that cave were endless, I lost my way in fact. I was beyond the smell of fresh air and I began to panic. Still, though, i moved forward. I wish I could explain that night, that feeling.....the reason i did not turn and run. If I could tell you how much time had passed I would. Eventually I was beyond panic. My people do not do well outside of the free air, my very bones shivered with fear that I would die in this dank and stale place. In my...fear..in my panic I cried out. With all of me I cried out to whomever would listen. It was not the Stag that carried me swiftly, nor the Wolf that stalked form shadow to shadow to show me the way. No..." His eyes took on a...harder look. A difficult look to explain. The sort of look you see on a grizzled veterans face when you tell him what a hero he was; when the child says that he too wishes for a life glory such as this warrior's. "He Called himself the Maker. He did not appear as a man, or a flash, or anything. He was an undeniable presence that told me He had led me here. Told me that he had Made me For a specific purpose. He Told me that this Cavern led through the Three Hells. The three realms of Disharmony after this life ends and move on to the next. He told me that was my path home. He said safe passage was assured through it, though I would learn things that I perhaps would wish I hadn't. He offered me the choice of moving forward with certainty of safety of and change, or to turn around and wander the darkness and perhaps find my way home the same man; also to perhaps die in anonymity....What choice was that? " I WIll not tell you here what I saw in those realms, and I cannot tell you where I traveled between after those hells and before home. I can tell you that I learned much In Dis, Limbo, and Purgatory; the Maker was right, I wish that things hadn't been necessary to learn. There are old Laws that govern this world. There are older rules that one such as I must play by. Rules are the nature of the world. We breathe, or we die. Eat Or die. These are rules. Without these rules we would have no life. It is similar with myself. These rules Give me much power, but define the way it may be used strictly. There are very few that still play the Oldest game. ". His empty pipe was tapped free of it's ash, his body stretched out towards the hearth and reaching. He stood and stowed the long piece of shaped wood, pulling the ribbon from his hair and letting the dreadlocks cover his features once more. His Dark eyes almost seemed to glow behind the napped tendrils. That aforementioned 'something' hung around him now, perhaps you know what it is now. " It is this ones purpose to remind this World of It's Maker. To wander ceaselessly and re-teach the Oldest game. Rekindle the Ancient laws. This one is tireless. This one will pursue the end, until the end is reached." His features softened, his neck tilting to one side, letting his hair fall to the side to show his face. " Then I will die. My purpose fulfilled, and allowed to return to my true home". He turned then, without a goodbye, without even an acknowledgment that he was done. Bare feet, calloused hard and road-stained, bore him out of the small building. Silence was all that he left in his wake, that and the subtle crackle of a fire that was soon to be put to bed.

AN old school riddle: Everyone uses me at one point. Those who buy me do not use me. The one who uses me, does not know they are using me. What am I?

So i'm fairly excited to join this communitty. I've roleplayed a long time, starting in the yahoo chatrooms before they became something less than what they used to be. So hello, my characters name is driftwood, though i expect i'll be making another sometime down the road. I'm pleased to be here amongst you.