Yes, I'm alive, and I should be returning to WoW soon! 
I've sincerely missed you all, and I can't wait to start playing with you all again!

 Stonard.

Imagine a cess-pit, in the middle of a refuse pile, in habited entirely by hairy, smelly, green men and you have a fairly accurate idea of what I am presently enduring. It is a sunless, hopeless, useless, Light-forsaken bog; entirely deserving of its name. "The Swamp of Sorrows." If the crockolisks don't get you, the constant stink of wet canine most assuredly will.  

A few nights ago, the Ebonhawk Vanguard had a meeting. There was no small amount of dissent regarding the matter of our deployment-- up to and including Second Lieutenant Sunkeeper, head of the Magus Corps. We are told that we are meant to be fighting back the Alliance in a battle for resources, to allow more Horde troops to engage the invaders in Hyjal. It is not going over well. Many of us are of the mind that we aught to be focusing on areas of greater concern, that these grunts are taking our place on the lines.  I cannot claim to understand their desire to throw their bodies onto the pyre, but I would rather die defending my world than defending Hellscream's political agenda. I believe it is unlikely that the conflict between the Alliance and the Horde will end anytime soon, but it does raise certain questions for me. Especially when I am expected to participate in it.

Hi everyone!

I want to take a moment to thank all of my readers. I know there aren't many of you, but I appreciate all the support you've given me as I work to find my niche in the Wyrnrest Accord RP community.  I can't thank you enough for the etiquette tips, constructive feedback, and the many wonderful opportunities you've given me to improve the way I play. 

I've also had a few people compliment my work with Astirian, and while I think much of it is exceedingly generous, I would like to give back just a little by sharing some small reflections that aided me in forging him. It is my hope that someone will find this useful, but it's by no means a tutorial. Just a smattering of ideas submitted for your perusal and consideration. I sincerely hope you can find use for them in your RP.

One of the most fascinating  parts of writing in a video game, I have found, is the way stories are told. As opposed to the quasi-linear method found in most novels, stories in RP are told in fragments, through a series of scenes. The method is far more disjointed, similar to a television show that shows a story from differing perspectives: wherein villains can be the enemies of heroes, but heroes are the villains of their enemies. It's an environment where nothing is spoon-fed to the observer, and where immersion is everything.

 I suppose in a funny way, it points to a disconnect between characters and the people who play them: I'm sure we've all had moments where our creations have taken on presences of their own and shown us that we as writers can only do so much! We pour our souls into our characters, so they can speak through us, and then we find joy in watching their unique struggles as entities in a fictional world (one we have created, or one we have not).The reason stories in RP are intense this way, I'd wager, is because we players spend a lot of time developing our characters.  Everything that makes our writing good, the very foundation of the story we are trying to tell, is not rooted in an outline, or in months of planning, but spontaneously generated by cause and effect relationships to people and events.  This approach to writing is, I think, far more authentic than the tried and true methods of authorship.  It makes for a much more compelling, more realistic, story, and lets the reader put themselves in the shoes of the protagonist.

I used to be the kind of person that had trouble with detailed character write-ups, an issue that went all the way back to my creative writing classes in college. I found that I would start with a concept, expand upon it, and then find it difficult to implement what I had written. The result was a theoretical character, and an actual one, each bearing only a slight resemblance to the other. As you can imagine, it was frustrating to spend months on a book, only to scrap it because things stopped making sense. So this time, instead of choosing base elements, and then building a character that is only somewhat reminiscent of them, I allowed the character to take shape based on RP. I allowed him to tell me who he was, and then subsequently analyzed his  thoughts, feelings, and reactions into key influences around him.

In a nutshell, Astirian is an work-in-progress (as any character rightly should be), and something of a writing experiment.  He is an exemplar of a different approach to character development, which I am going to call Character Keystoning.

The technique is one I am still working on (and it's very rough, so I apologize for that) but it begins with  a simple  strategy that my friends suggested to me several times when I was planning to start playing.  The advice was simple: to start with a blank slate, and see what happened. I was at something of an advantage, as I was playing with my best friend and we had the benefit of "winging it" together. Admittedly, I think that was the only reason I stuck with this character, and  tried to make something out of him.  It definitely was not easy.  I remember being extremely dissatisfied with him, because he felt so hollow.  There are few things more annoying to me than a hollow character. I like archetypes alright, but the problem with them, is that they're, well, archetypal. They're predictable and orthodox, and it takes a great deal of twisting to make them believable (sorry, if I see a giant black dragon in dread plate, I am high tailing it in the opposite direction!).  The same goes for clichés-- the brooding antihero, or the chick with enormous fun-bags and a serious case of the giggles.

But the more you try to make a character fit a mold, I have found, the more they tend to rebel against it.  So, ironically, these "preset" icons are often the best autopilot you can use. At least it gives you something to play until you figure out what you want to play. So, step one is to play something. play anything, without super strong convictions or beliefs, until that familiar "spark" hits you, and you just know how the character you're making wants to react.  From there, it's all downhill, until you feel comfortable breaking down the most significant deviations from what you started out with.

Now, the fun begins. This is where your character tells you who they are.

What I am working on presently is finding causative keystones.

1. Begin with  common elements or themes. It can be a trait, a belief, a habit, even a person!*  
2. Then, set up a basic cause and effect situation. A stimulus and how your character consistently reacts to it
3. Isolate a superficial rationale for why the character behaves as they do. ( This is probably something they use to explain the behavior)
4. Isolate a profound rationale, a deep-seated reason for the behavior. (Usually something they will not admit or are only unconsciously aware of).
5.  Reflect and deduce  root causes.  Why are the rationales relevant to the element(s) you have chosen?

6. At this point, it helps to map it out. write each of the things you've found out in respective rows. Then draw arrows to see which root cause relates to the most elements, either directly or by-proxy through a rationale. Make sure you account for mutually exclusive, and mutually non-exclusive relationships. (Is it a one-way relationship, or does your character relate two things interchangeably?)

                       6b. If you have a causation: fear, remember that  fears have coping mechanisms
                       6c. If you have a causation: memory or experience,  remember that there are affective influences 
                             as well.
                       6d. There is probably more to put, but I've not encountered it at this point in time, so...

7. Repeat the process as many times as you feel you need to, to get everything important out on the page. After a while, you should start to see something that looks like a flow-chart. The term "well rounded" should take on a new meaning. You will find that there will be "cycles" appearing in your chart. This is good. It means that you've made solid connections, and developed your character to  a respectable extent. 

7b. If you find holes, or things that you are having trouble explaining/connecting, then you might need to consider why they are there, and write some history in to fill the gaps. Conversely, you might choose to write out this part of their nature entirely, depending on how often you've played it and how relevant it is.


* It is often best to use a person from their past in this situation, or someone who has very profoundly affected your character in the present. This way, you won't get stuck.

I'm not certain if this is going to work in the long run, and I am sure there are things missing that really aught to be considered.  All I  know is that this really helped me, and that it might help someone else down the line.  Again, thank you for reading, and I look forward to enjoying your entries as well!

Happy trails,

A.

It never ceases to amaze me, the extent to which truth is so maddeningly subjective.  Recent events have caused me to consider that there is no such thing as dichotomy. Truth, which so many see as a force for good, can be surprisingly gray-- a thing people shun at the same time they embrace it.  If they like what is said, then it is good. If they dislike it, then it must not really be true.

It seems to me that truth, like the paradigms of good and evil, is defined by personal codes and experiences.  A man may speak a half truth with the best of intentions; to spare feelings, or even lives. But is he truly doing others a service by being so underhanded?  Is there ever a situation where one must do evil, in order to do good?

Sometimes people do not want to hear the truth. Sometimes they can't. Sometimes they need to see it for themselves, even if they must be duped into it. When situations like this arise, and you care for the person embroiled in them, you occasionally need to do the wrong thing, to do the right thing. And in cases like these, the line between right and wrong is nebulous, at best. 

Nikkitah and I have damaged each other. He, by his anger, mistrust, and willingness to involve Eriene; I, by my ability to dupe him into moving forward when he may have lacked the strength.

What a man thinks of himself often belies his intent. Since I was told he was a dangerous influence, I was naturally curious as to whether or not this was true. I hoped to at least come to my own understanding, for it is not my nature to remember an enemy fondly, and I did not want to think he was my enemy (I was not prepared to accept that he could be).

So it was that I came to him on his deathbed, hoping to glean more about the man he was,  and with the intent of finding a way to restore his faith in himself if I could. I was not exactly sure at the time what it was that had  caused him such upset.  All I had to go on was what he had told me. Something about fate punishing him, not being good for the people around him. 




But to do that, I needed to know what he valued in this world. What he had worked for, what motivated him. Had I been in his shoes, motivation would have been the only thing to trump my feelings of despair. The only thing that would open my eyes. So, I donned the partial disguise of an oblivious kid, and managed to get him to tell me of his purpose, what he felt he was there to do. Perhaps the reason I was able to convince him, was because my curiosity was genuine.  The man is an enigma to me-- even more so because I know Xynrael and my parents would not approve.

I feel that what he told me should be kept in confidence, even from ink and paper... and so I apologize if any of this seems confusing due to that. One thing I can say for certain, is that Nikkitah will never stand for an injustice, nor will he abide a truth untold. These are qualities I think everyone sees in him, the very same qualities that make him seem capricious, inconsiderate, and difficult. This must be, I think, because no one knows just how solid his reasons are. As I said, men are want to deceive others, most especially themselves.

He looked at me, dumbfounded, when at last I explained how and why I had baited him. The adjectives used were an odd mixture, spanning from conniving to noble to surprisingly loyal.  Perhaps this is sadistic, but there was little more satisfying to me, than the knowledge that I had surprised him.  He is right about me, you know. When the situation merits it, I am a clever, manipulative whelp. Something I picked up from my Mother, I suppose.

It cannot be held against him. To be honest, I am shocked that he did not lash out at me.  After all, I did willingly deceive him. Regardless of intent, it is not something I am proud of. From a personal standpoint, I see the error in what I did. I feel guilty for failing to do what I was attempting to, and for making matters worse. For hurting a friend to help them. Especially when he did not ask for my interference.  But, in the same breath, I am honored that he considers me worth something, worth talking to, worth  calling something other than "stranger."

I accept my actions, and their consequences. But I struggle to find justification for them. A part of me genuinely thinks that he deserved to  be duped because he was willing to  underestimate me. But that is pride talking, and I know better than to give in to it entirely.  Philosophically, I perceive his weakness as proof-positive he is not completely evil. Men who strive to uphold virtue, any virtue personal or otherwise, often suffer  for it at the hands of those who are not as upstanding.  i deceived him. I was not virtuous. I robbed him ( temporarilty) of his right to the truth. And he suffered for it. Suffered to find the good in himself, suffered because he had to live with himself after that moment of grave weakness.

I do not know for certain if there was any good in what I did.
I don't know if the risk outweighed the benefit.
For him, or for me.

He says that I am  not completely trustworthy because I am young. Because the minds of the young often change. What he does not seem to understand is that we men are not merely creatures of ideas. We are not only what we think. This is a concept I too find difficult to understand. I suppose the best way to explain it, is to say that it's assuredly easier to change a thought than it is to change a belief, and my beliefs concerning a person are often far stronger than my thoughts. Even if they are not mutually exclusive.

I believe that he is misunderstood, and that he, like Eriene, needs good friends. As for what others may say? Well, I have read that it is the nature of men to deceive and to be deceived. That men so hunger for punishment that they must seek it, and in so doing, ensure that liars are never want for people to lie to.  Even if they are lying to themselves.

We're all liars in some way, you know.
Pretty little liars.
Saying what we want them to hear, being what they want us to be.
Pretending this and that, in the vain hope
that no one will care enough to notice.

Anger. Rage. Hatred.

These feelings surge in me in ways I cannot control, and are terrifying for their scope.

She made me promise her that I would stay.
That I would never be as weak as he is. 

(What did he do to upset her so much? Why was she so desperate to ensure I would not run away?)

She mentioned something about fate punishing him, taking away those he cares for.

Eriene is right. You are a coward. A filthy, self-entitled coward. I hope one day you know it. I hope she tells you, because it will eat away at you the way my concern for you ate away at her. The way your capriciousness ate away at me.  
You are a terrible person. A terrible, horrible person, that finds fault in everything for the sake of finding fault.
There is no truth in it. You're just... a pathetic misanthrope.

I trusted you. I thought you were my friend. Thought you were wise, and worth looking up to.
I thought you cared about the people you lead.

When I was very young, I stole some apples from the neighbor's tree.  They were goldenbough apples, the sort that rarely grew where we lived. I ate one, and it was delicious. But  as I was climbing down, I fell out, and broke my arm. An'da was distraught when I was brought to him. He looked at me with a mixture of fury and concern; furious at me  for my foolishness, but also for the circumstances that had brought me to harm. I realize now that it was not recklessness that angered him so, but  my lack of compassion. That was the day I learned there was no crime but theft. That all wrongs in this world are a variation of it, in different shades and hues.

I was told, that when you kill a man, you steal his right to live. When you cheat him, you steal his right to fairness.  When you lie to him, you steal his right to the truth. Of these three sins, I had committed at least one, and that was just cause to atone for what I had done. Since I've been on my own, there have been several times I have had to seek to fill the holes I've dug for myself. But, none so perilous as this.

The last time we spoke ( for I am certain it will be the last, after seeing the state of you), you seemed to approve of me. Of my views, of my choices. You spoke of my desire to associate with you as a possible calling. You said I was right to question; wise beyond my years. And yet, upon reading your final message to me, it seems that all of this has changed.

What have I done to wrong you? To make matters worse? Was it the mention of the one you called a coward? My stubborn resolve in interfering? Perhaps the fact that I was honest about my regrets, my disappointments. Perhaps sharing them showed me to be too fragile to be viable.

Did you truly wish to damage me, as your final act? Or, were you simply trying to break me of any lingering desire to emulate you? My habit of helping perfect strangers? I cannot help but wonder if you wanted to try to hurt me so you could be sure I would not become like you. You could have been testing my resolve, to see if perhaps service was my True North. Then again, maybe the answer is far more simple. Perhaps you were angry, and lashed out at me for making no sense.

I do not know why I was so worried. Maybe it was the thought of Ama.
I don't want to die. I don't want to strand her here all alone.
I don't want to be a dead weight.
She needs me.
I'm sorry.

I will never tell you this, but I do trust your word on the matter of my purpose. That is your purpose. To speak the truths that no one else wants to hear, in a way they cannot deny. That was what you said.  If you say I am lousy at helping other people, then perhaps I am truly lousy at it.

But the crux of the issue, is this: If I cannot help others, cannot be of any use in that aspect, what good am I at all? To Eriene? to the Vanguard? to Hylaudius? How can I be better? and how, in the Light's name, can I ever hope to atone for the damage I have caused?

He is going to die. Going to die, and I can do nothing to stop him.

I have been staring in this book for hours, trying to come up with something to say. Something to convince him that there may be things he has not considered.

I don't  want to believe that he would turn his back on his friends-- nor do I care what anyone says, what even he says, to the contrary. He is a good man. The only man I have met apart from my mentor that speaks with the clarity of water and the might of steel, the ardent passion of flame. The greatest things in the world are born of these elements. What is it that keeps him from seeing this potential? From trusting in those who need him, as much as they trust in him?

Or is it merely that I look at granite and see gold, in the foolishness of my youth?

I wish he  could see that I want nothing more than to befriend him; though I know that it may come at great personal cost.

It has always been my experience that people need you the most when they try to push you away. Maybe they think they're protecting you from something, or doubt your ability to handle whatever it is that consumes them.

Maybe he doubts me as much as he is doubting himself.

The last thing I wrote, was an appeal. I know it was wrong of me, and selfish to get involved. But I didn't do it for me. I did it, because I wanted to remind him that someone was there. Even if that someone was a bullheaded, pretentious teenager.

I told him that I thought nothing which relies on senses, on memories, on a drop of intuition to make decisions can presume to know the workings of fate. That those who follow someone do so at their own peril, and do so of a clear desire to fight and die alongside them.

Either way, his people will suffer. Either for having him, or for losing him. And both ways, he will have had a hand in it. I remember seeing a suicide in the Wayfarer's rest recently, and as she lay bleeding, I thought of the people that would never understand why she did what she did. The questions they would ask themselves,  each wondering if it was their fault.

I hope... I hope he will talk to me.  I hope he answers.

The blade was heavy in his hand, and he traced its contours with greatest care. The metal, dulled with the toil of her training, resembled the pock-marked face of the moon.  Parts of it flashed brightly, in the crimson light of the forge, and the divots where it had been struck were like tiny chalices, gathering reflections and spilling them incongruously into one another. He stood, vigilant, lifting it from the table, and moved to the rear of the forge, where there was space enough for him to become acquainted with the subject of his work. He could feel it against his shoulder blades, and rolled them back to remember it was there, to remember who had entrusted it to him.

In the span of a turn, he drew it from behind him, holding it  aloft in his leading hand to feel where it pulled and twisted, where it needed to be corrected. After a moment, he stepped back into a stance and twisted it in an arc, elbow bent, that it might rest firmly in both of his hands. Three strikes racked the air like a scourge through the limbs of open space.

The young blacksmith looked down to where he held it, like the crown jewel of a far off land,  and felt a weight on his chest that pressed upon him like a stone. His heart raced beneath it, like an insect trying in vain to free itself; his gut wound itself in knots like a hapless worm. It would have been foolish to say that objects could speak, but swords, he had found, had a language all their own. It was descended from the most ancient of tongues, wrought from the very soul of the soil, and integrated into the metallic gleam of every weapon ever forged.

A frown  took hold of his pointed chin,  and he looked on in a mixture of wonder and confusion. Even the most out of tune swords could speak to him, and somehow say what they needed. This one, did not. It held on to its secrets stubbornly, and refused to give in no matter the consequence. Whereas many blades would sing, this one barely whispered, its magic perhaps more ancient than  any he had ever known.

It was called the Maiden's Blade. Named for the woman whose rugged grace he had come to associate with its power. To him, there was no other hand more suitable to cast away the wicked, nor a stronger soul to seek the path of righteousness and virtue. Great though his disdain may have been for her choices, he could not help respecting her for keeping to them. This was Shan'drethil. This was Eriene's blade. And although it may have been unwise to value any one weapon over another,  Astirian could not help resolving himself to doing any less than his best work.

Flames brandished the metal until it glowed a fearsome gold, and emerged, licking the grind stone like a phoenix clipping the wall of a great abyss. Sparks flew in every direction, but Astirian remained focused-- his heart swelling with pride as every ding, dent, and scratch was worked out, and hammered  clean.

Honed, brandished, battle ready, he held it up to the light, seeing his own reflection. In accordance with his desire, the blood knight's cherished relic seemed to take on a similar sense of joy. One could always tell when a sword is pleased, for it does not merely catch light, but rather seeks it as an errant adventurer with a thirst for all that glistens.

Again, he swung it about in three clean arcs, and paused. Then, he repeated it again, just to be certain of what he had heard. The sound it made as it cut the air was almost the same as before, although different.  Cleaner, and more defined. There was no mistaking it, for each swing yielded the same result. The same word repeated over and over, perhaps only because he wished to hear it.

"Eriene."

There are times when every man feels his life is a sorry one, and I, though not a man, am no exception.I have been told that to live is to hurt, and in  78 years, I suppose I have seen enough to know that it does.

I have come to seek the council of many lately, with regard to one life lesson or another. In many ways seeking the lessons because I am afraid they will one day find me, and I'd rather face them on my own terms. I may surround myself with "abject trash" as one of my friends says, the sort that spend half their time hitting on people and the other half following through.  But there is a value to at least one of these friendships. The more I sit around, listening to people's opinions on this thing and that, the more I begin to piece together who I am now, and who I want to be in the future.

I like to play the grump around Sindre, and wear on his nerves, because I like that he tries to improve himself when I do so. He is not like other Death Knights, and in the course of my entrapment here, I have come to know several. Each of them different, each an individual. Just as I was told. He seeks to break the mold, which I find admirable. I want to break molds, too. (Well, the ones I don't need).Sindre  is a kind man, and a good friend, even if his attraction to me is rather... unnerving.  I expect it shall stop, now that he and his partner have decided to wed. If that is possible?

To his credit, He was right about me, I really am a kid. A sorry kid who lives his life in a forge, because he cares for a woman who cannot  return his affections. A kid who surrounds himself with a court of fools so he can feel smart, or who hears  the council of any willing to give it, simply because he does not know what else makes him happy.

I have tried taking life and sparing it-- neither made me truly happy. I have tried making my work my life, and it did not please me entirely. I have tried frivolity, and all I got for it was guilt. I have tried to be serious, but find myself unable to control myself adequately enough. So, I put on a brave face, smile along, make an effort to josh and tease. For a time, it gives me hope. But soon, it is replaced with a pervasive darkness that I cannot describe. I think I have finally come to understand what it is that troubles me: I lack a purpose, or a sense of it.

The only time I am happy is when I am working on my new blades, or when I am with Eriene. I feel terrible about it, but I question Her virtue. Is virtue worth so much that She would sacrifice what we share? Perhaps I am imagining it.  Perhaps I imagined it all.  I am content to be Her friend, so long as She is aware that my feelings for Her have not changed. I do not love Her, not yet, nor do I covet Her at the expense of Her marriage.  But I care, and I want Her to be happy. And I feel badly that I may not be able to make Her so, or worse, do so incompletely. I hate myself for allowing Her to possess my thoughts; hate myself for the fear that I cannot be trusted with Her. But when we are together, I feel that my world is once again whole. I am who I was before the accident. Most of all I hate myself for not being able to stay away.

One of my best confidants does not trust me with her, either, and this concerns me.  His is a wisdom I have come to trust, because it reminds me of my mentor's. As the Forgemaster has been occupied with other matters (in light of the recent trouble in the Firelands, I can only guess) I feel I have come to rely on him for a sense of direction.  I envy his coolness, and his logic.  Everything he says makes sense, because it is dour and the world is a dark place.  There is something honest about him, that makes me want to believe in what he says. Even though he disapproves of my friends, and seems forever displeased with me.

Even the Commander's threats in regard to him are not enough to deter me from speaking to him, and taking his word into consideration, and although I am wary of Xynrael, I will give him due respect. I simply do not understand why he thinks one of my closest confidants is not to be trusted. Especially when he trusts the Forgemaster so heartily. The two do not seem so different to me.

Will  I ever admit to how much I need the approval of these people?

No, I will never. Because I am a coward. I am a coward to seek their approval to begin with. Only cowards look for things they don't need. And I have been doing that too much lately, even for my own liking.