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jenett -- you may find this amusing. Or something. )
( This may not make sense to people who don't speak Changeling: The Dreaming. )
(jenett, sstaten: This character is Amalthea and Emerus's oldest, in an alternate universe where he'd be about sixteen now.)
I knew when I started playing him that he was unseelie; both his parents are, after all, and whether that's a matter of nature, nurture, life experience, or what, that was just how it was going to be. Also, I don't play seelie fae well, as a general rule; whenever I try to start playing one they inevitably slip into unseelitude along the way and I have to give up and let them go where they want to go. (I can do strictly ambiguous without this happening; my childling Eiluned was like that.) More evidence of me coming out of the dark by default, I suppose.
Dee . . . Dee's a crafter, a smith. Has a true Passion for it, as befits the son of a nocker. A fairly orderly, controlled passion for an unseelie. I thought that was an indication about his preferences. He comes out with the damnedest things about how he experiences smithing -- he went on at length about the rhythm and music of the anvil to James (oneironaut's nocker) that had the fellow rolling his eyes and muttering "Satyrs." He likes girls too much for Christian (lstone's character) to trust him, which amuses the hell out of me. ;)
He's unseelie, a teenager unseelie, who lived in a city where the force of law and custom was enforced by sheerest weight of people. The chaotic impulses were dampened down by the presence of all those people, the people who would cause him trouble if he let himself go.
He's somewhere where . . . all that pressure is gone. He carried on on a sort of inertia for a while, and then started to break loose.
First he told me about his girlfriend. The redcap. He's got some scars he's fairly proud of. That's a . . . fascinating relationship he's got there. All kinds of strangeness.
He's been doing some past-life mining -- he has a decent remembrance, and was working through some peculiarities of the setting in a way that going back to the oldest memories and thought-processes, the most primordial bits of his self. Which puts him in a very different mindset, one he's sort of bouncing back and forth between -- something older, more distinctly impulsive, and full of memories of blood as well as wine, of maddened maenads ripping people to pieces for offenses against Dionysios.
And then he had a conversation that sort of nudged him off the edge, to a place where he had to go and spill out the dark violent bits for a while, which he had the wits to go do somewhere else. Somewhere where the blood would mostly be his, and not that of the mortal he considers under his protection, or incidental other people, some of whom have fed him. (He may be an ageless spirit of passion and chaotic impulse, but he's also a sixteen year old boy.)
Addendum: And this seems to be his themesong, at least at the moment.
[ log excerpt posted withblacktarrant's permission ]
jenett -- you may find this amusing. Or something. )( This may not make sense to people who don't speak Changeling: The Dreaming. )
(
jenett, sstaten: This character is Amalthea and Emerus's oldest, in an alternate universe where he'd be about sixteen now.)- To cut mince pies from children's thighs
And feed them to the fairies . . .
I knew when I started playing him that he was unseelie; both his parents are, after all, and whether that's a matter of nature, nurture, life experience, or what, that was just how it was going to be. Also, I don't play seelie fae well, as a general rule; whenever I try to start playing one they inevitably slip into unseelitude along the way and I have to give up and let them go where they want to go. (I can do strictly ambiguous without this happening; my childling Eiluned was like that.) More evidence of me coming out of the dark by default, I suppose.
Dee . . . Dee's a crafter, a smith. Has a true Passion for it, as befits the son of a nocker. A fairly orderly, controlled passion for an unseelie. I thought that was an indication about his preferences. He comes out with the damnedest things about how he experiences smithing -- he went on at length about the rhythm and music of the anvil to James (
oneironaut's nocker) that had the fellow rolling his eyes and muttering "Satyrs." He likes girls too much for Christian (lstone's character) to trust him, which amuses the hell out of me. ;)He's unseelie, a teenager unseelie, who lived in a city where the force of law and custom was enforced by sheerest weight of people. The chaotic impulses were dampened down by the presence of all those people, the people who would cause him trouble if he let himself go.
He's somewhere where . . . all that pressure is gone. He carried on on a sort of inertia for a while, and then started to break loose.
First he told me about his girlfriend. The redcap. He's got some scars he's fairly proud of. That's a . . . fascinating relationship he's got there. All kinds of strangeness.
He's been doing some past-life mining -- he has a decent remembrance, and was working through some peculiarities of the setting in a way that going back to the oldest memories and thought-processes, the most primordial bits of his self. Which puts him in a very different mindset, one he's sort of bouncing back and forth between -- something older, more distinctly impulsive, and full of memories of blood as well as wine, of maddened maenads ripping people to pieces for offenses against Dionysios.
And then he had a conversation that sort of nudged him off the edge, to a place where he had to go and spill out the dark violent bits for a while, which he had the wits to go do somewhere else. Somewhere where the blood would mostly be his, and not that of the mortal he considers under his protection, or incidental other people, some of whom have fed him. (He may be an ageless spirit of passion and chaotic impulse, but he's also a sixteen year old boy.)
- Still I sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys
Bedlam boys are bonny
For they all go bare and live by the air
And they want no drink nor money . . .
Addendum: And this seems to be his themesong, at least at the moment.
[ log excerpt posted with
blacktarrant's permission ]- Wren considers this for a long moment, eyes narrowing, and head canting in the way a cat will when it's considering whether or not they can jump from a particularly daunting height and still land on their feet. "I'd always heard stories about nymphs being chased by admirers. What makes them so worth chasing? What do .they. have that others don't? /Why/ are they worth chasing?"
Dee frowns slightly, trying to sketch a thought in the air with his hands. It does, perhaps predictably, have a fair suggestion of curves in it, but there's more to it than the suggestion of voluptuosity. "Part of it," he says, then, his voice rather deep and oddly throaty, "is the fun of chasing. There's," he pauses, then laughs and says, in more normal tones, "I don't think I can really say this without getting pornographic on you." He pauses, and the other voice comes back, the deeper one, as he continues: "But think of a moment when you have known perfect joy, the sort of joy that's made the more perfect by knowing that when the moment it is passes, it will be gone forever. Imagine a woman with dark, rich skin and the stars in her eyes, eyes that promise that she knows where perfect joys come from and how to go fetch them. Imagine her laugh, the way it ripples through her chest, imagine the way her hair flows in the wind as she turns and runs away. . ." He shivers violently, and looks up through a cascade of hair, his golden eyes seeming oddly dark. "Would you chase her?"
It takes Wren a moment to find her voice, which leaves her nodding mutely at first. It also leaves her looking a bit daunted, which is, under the circumstances, understandable. "Probably," she admits finally. Eyes narrowing once more, she glances sidelong toward some empty space at the corner of her periphery, and considers the explanation in depth -- a moment's peace where she can shake off the moment a bit better. "Somehow, I get the feeling that it's not something you can just decide to try your hand at. But it's a start." Nodding decisively, she straightens, a lazy smile curving her lips. Her sense of humor seems to reassert itself, "I don't suppose they have classes for it?"
Dee's voice clears back to normal, more or less, though still with the dark undertones, still the intense dark golden eyes staring out through wild golden hair. "I think it is one of the Mysteries that women learn," he says, with the capital letter clear. "Though not all master it. It is," he pauses, the eyes half-closing, "it is an art of being utterly oneself, I think, with all that means, to know hips and breasts and lips and what magics they can work, to," he sucks in a breath, more of a gasp, his voice going low again, "know what the . . . target . . . desires, and know how to offer it in a way that makes him follow." Another shiver, though this one less violent, and then an almost conversational, "I have spent a lot of time in old memories lately. This place is . . . strange."
Wren levels a look on Dee that marks his last comment as a serious understatement. "I would have to agree. But I also like that about it." Uncurling her legs, she drops one over the edge, her toes brushing the ground in little to and fro sweeps as she gives the matter some consideration. "I think, first and foremost, that requires a person know who she is. And right now, that's not the easiest question to answer." Shrugging at the whimsy, and perhaps to shake off the intensity behind the explanations being offered, she heaves a sigh, pouting, and momentarily lost in thought. "I suppose there's nothing for it then, but to let the cards fall where they will. And I'm done trying so hard. If he wants me, he can damn well coming looking on his own."
Dee slithers off the table a little bonelessly and leans on it until it stops trying to topple over. "Knowing who you are is the best start," he says, a little breathlessly. "I need to go."
Wren lifts her chin in a vague sort of salute for his departure. There's something in her smile that smacks of gratitude, tinged with a bit of sudden concern, "Sweet dreams, Dee. Make them count." She, for her part, doesn't seem as though she'll be going anywhere for a while.
Dee tosses his head to flick the hair back from his eyes. "Sweet is . . . not the word," he says, a rumbling voice just shy of a growl. He pulls off his poncho in a flare of irritation that borders on rage, and seems to nearly leave it; it's an effort for him to put it over one arm. He makes a small bow, courtly, and starts walking towards the door; as he starts walking, he starts singing, a low, slow, deep voice, "I am a creature of the wood," he begins, "forsaken in my solitude. My song is pleasure and is pain . . . my song can drive a man insane." The tone is almost conversational, but it strikes notes of absolute truth, even in those few lines, the wildness underlying the promise of the music. "So come with me, my pipes I'll play . . ." by this point he's at the door, and the last line, "and we will dance--" is cut off by the door closing.