Recent Statuses

1 day ago
Current I bore witness to the godliness of hbomber's stream, at least in the parts and pieces a sane person would and should be expected to watch, even to hbomb and his steering committee.
1 like
6 days ago
Apparently people don't have the right to live. That's good to know.
11 days ago
Mahz has finally returned from his log vacation!
15 days ago
Overwatch's writing is garbage anyways since they killed any interesting story elements by declaring any in-game lines as basically be non-canonical. So it's no surprise. Play better games instead.
20 days ago
Given my resolutions typically are something like "keep on keeping on" I've done good so far. I could also make a resolution to keep on doing what I've been doing for the past six months and be gucci.


Most Recent Posts

Little do we know, Googer is actually The Rock.
Semiane stood at the window of his hotel. The sun had set, and the sky was aglow with the rich colors of late evening. Clouds, back lit in bright golden and bloodied hues hung lightly in the sky. All that day, the merchant had not been able to sleep since the explosion rocked the city earlier that day. He had bode his disturbed hours plying for information, finding sources, and seeing if perchance he might get an opportunity to see the site of all the commotion.

He leaned up against the wall, holding the thick curtains to him as he leaned forward and looked out. Though the sun had set its dying rays still carried a sting that irritated the skin.

War, or the incitement of violence was not abnormal to him. One does not live for so long in so many places and not bare witness to one's fair share of pogroms, wars, riots, and hunts. He himself before in the past had instigated his own in elaborate schemes and force embargoes against rivals. Ports had been burned and blown up in riots incited over tariffs, or rather pirates had been hired declaring themselves as merchants unwilling to sell first at the privileged ports of the world. So too had he bore witness to the flowering of trade wars into open conflict and passed himself and his company off as mercenaries and swords for hire in brief periods.

This was only the beginning of the coming conflict, Semiane knew. It could only get worse from here. One side or the other would need material, perhaps both. It mattered little who won, what mattered were the contracts. He smiled to himself and let the blinds fall back into place and the room fell back into darkness.

He could still however see. Gray highlights of hidden objects, the writing desk, the bed, the dresser and dining table, the wine cabinet and the other amenities to give comfort to guests as prestigious or wealthy as he. Above the door to the room was a full scale bust of the long-ruling king of this realm, his dour face looking out in stoic scorn of the world. Was he naturally a cold person, Semiane wondered, or was this just the fashion?

He so missed seeing the excitable faces of the Kings of Glascon, far to the south. There was a country that knew the fashion of life. No one frowned in their images, in their simulacra. It was a party, it was a love and lust for life no matter how bacchanalian it got. Oh what skill their artists had, to render the muscles of the face in such active ways! It really did remind him that the north was loathsome for a reason. Dour, dreadful, and gray.

He drifted back to bed, his mind racing in many different ways. A whore slept there, her back turned to him. He lay down next to her, their naked bodies touched as he drew a hand across her sleeping body, feeling his breasts as her chest rose and fell with each breath. She was a young one, a premium one, who hadn't lost her mind yet. It made it all the more sweater. But he wasn't in the mood for anything either, thinking too fast never got it to go up. But he could breath her air, draw strength from that, and he lay down to close his eyes and try.

Semiane didn't know if he actually ever went to sleep. Though perhaps he passed in and out. When he opened his eyes again the sky was dark and night had fallen, and someone was knocking on the door. The whore turned in the bed and looked up and towards the window, shocked. Semiane muttered something about the gold being on the end table and rose to his feet, throwing on a robe as he headed to the door.

“Your honor, I've managed to clear an opportunity to see the site of today's activities.” the captain from his ship said. His face looked dour and stressed as he looked up at him plantively. He clearly wasn't enjoying being here. Semiane nodded.

They arrived at the block of the attempted assassination and kidnapping in rent carriages. Guards had already established a parameter, but it was hardly neccesary as most of the towns folk, or those mortal and day living had already retired away or were outright avoiding the street all together. Under the orange glow of torches and the green light of oil lamps an eerie glow suffused the space as broken glass sparkled in the shattered street.

Stepping out, Semiane's boots were the only sounds to break the silence of that deep silence. His presence sparked the attention of the guards who rose from their idle positions and stood attentively watching him from under the helmets. The ship's captain, with a small sack of coin in hand and a piece of folded parchment approached the nearest officer and exchanging hushed words. Taking the coin, and opening the parchment the nearest guard nodded.

“'roight y'honor,” he said in a heavy voice, “yer a tourist now.”

Semiane bowed politely and walked ahead. As he passed the men at arms the ship's captain hurried up to his side. Walking a ways onto the scene the captain finally turned and said to him, “I mean you no disrespect, but why are we here?”

Semiane stopped, his head held high as he turned to look about. He wore a wide smile as he answered, “I just wanted to check it out.” he said, walking over to the side. Apart from broken cobble stone and glass windows, there wasn't much amiss here.

“What is there to see here then that we couldn't from further back? Why go through the trouble of asking my to bribe the city guard?” the captain was clearly exasperated. His voice trembled. Clearly not a man of battle, a merchant's captain like many from his city. Was there not a single military action the patricians didn't sell out to mercenaries?

“Why is it people like to loiter in graveyards?” Semiane asked, “How is they're made to be attractive public spaces, a place for people to be.”

“Well you're honor, for respect of the dead. And this is hardly respect for the dead right now.”

“And why would the dead care? They're dead, they are hardly here to take offense. Else, if being where the dead have died were disrespectful then there would be all the reason to stay indoors, and then: people too die in their houses. But you didn't answer my question...”

The captain murmured as they walked down the street. “I-I don't know.” he said.

“I think it's because people seek out that membrane between life and death. It's why... people like myself are so terrifying. We're appealing in the end, we're neither living or dead. We are that interregnum between being alive and being dead. And so too are these places that hold such power. For eons, people have gone to the field of battle for such a purpose, to see the limits of life and existence. It's terrible joy.”

“But... wait, you're a vampire then. Why does this matter to you?”

“Because it reminds me of when I was human.” he said simply, crouching down in the middle of the street. Here at the epicenter of it all many of the pieces had not been entirely cleared away. Blood still caked the cobblestone streets, splashed against the walls. Semiane too thought he could still see the remnants of flesh hanging from the broken places. Ahead, a crater in the ground was a broken house whose debris had been ejected outward. A dead horse lay crumbled in the middle of the road with a broken carriage. Shreds of clothes and cloth were swept about on the breeze.

“Smells like gunpowder.” Semiane said, “A lot of it. I wonder who had so much.” he was beginning to wonder if he had a competitor embedded here already. Or there was a persistent smuggling tradition he could take advantage of to slip clandestine material in and out.
Post opossum pics.

In Yep 9 days ago Forum: Spam Forum
In Yep 10 days ago Forum: Spam Forum
you are affirmed
<Snipped quote by Dinh AaronMk>

Me too, bruthaman. Fuck January

Especially when it's been all rain in Michigan and no snow because it's like, in Tennessee or some shit. It would be far less depressing with some snow.
tfw I've been a terrible person and need to catch up on reading and write a post.

Forgive me for my ineptitude. Winter blues got me like oof.
Capital moves through the world as if it were a living thing. A thing which in consumed by only a single passion: to devour. Its capacity to seek out new opportunities implies within its nature the perpetual emptiness of its soul. That like a hungry ghost, it is on the search for its next meal. And while the men who ride capital might hold themselves as the finest gentlemen of their time and communities they ride upon a rapacious beast whose sole interest is to gouge upon ever greater material and labor wealth. Through the past several centuries the great roiling beast of capitalism has pulled itself out from Europe to seek out its next meal somewhere else, and in the process engorge itself and grow as a mighty, fat wolf; that in partnership with the sly fox seeks to raid the soul.

The will of Capital, thus in its historical process chases, the people of the world through the march of modern history as the chariots of the nobility pulled history at the influence of the divine spirit. Which inspired feudal nobility to grasp for bold enrichment of its kings and emperors. And like those times, a cut of wealth taken and the workers of the world is appropriated to feed the wolf. Since freeing itself from the bondage of monarchy, Europe speedily rose through the force of the new consuming monster and on its back developed an industry to feed it, for on the refuse it leaves in its wake the bourgeoisie take its shit as gold, as wealth. Never mind the destruction of the people it leaves behind in its wake, and the unabashed overturning of the liberties these very same bourgeoisie heralded so proudly in the course of their revolutions.

This wolf of capital, ferocious and ravaging, can be understood as a historical force, even multiple forces. That as a part of its process we can be lead to put into perspective the fate and conditions of China and of elsewhere in the world that came to be table mates to the great cannibal wolf. That in the exploitation of China in the 19th century, the race to colonize Africa in the same century and on into the present, and to the circumstances and the rationale for the Great War, we may see the presence of the wolf, and the reason for its stalking, gnarling, and circling.

For at the end of the day, wealth is not a dispersed thing. It is a concentrating force. The wolf that is capital is hardly a singular beast, but a wild beasts blinded by its own self interest, that in its own ferocity, would soon eat itself. The world and the entire population of the Earth are their unwitting victims. As a statement of mercy even, it might be pointed out that even the bourgeoisie who claim to own the wolves are the wolves own victims because, as they turn it upon the world in search of capital and production for the sake there of they destroy themselves bit by bit. The effect of capital as a whole can not be viewed even as a system by which the sum of all people who control it make themselves universally better, but that those who control it are occasionally cast off from its back and their own wealth taken up by the beast. The competitive spirit of the self interested wolf does not end at taking from those who would be slaves under different historical circumstances but from others beyond that. Whether the form of this taking comes from contractual exchange or bomb, it matters little.

The latest war in particular is not an isolated occasion. The patterns of history which is cut into the fabric of the human experience by the wolf of capital is so often repeated. In the way that America was divided up and congealed initially into an ever shrinking number of colonial parties, so too was this performed in China and in Africa at the behest of European colonial administrators and land owners. So they did, as they did to one another in the Great War to acquire another's profits, and to stake claim. To make annexations for the purpose of finance capital and its spheres of influence. That in this we can find the war's own class characteristic.

It is through an analysis of the global network of capital, in the political partitioning of the world, or the railroads built, that we can understand the super structure of the bourgeoisie-democratic state. That in this relationship, complicated with simple things, the pattern can emerge from the shadows, Becoming illuminated among its context in private property, free competition, and bourgeoisie democracy. From America, to Europe, to Japan, and how they sought to draw the world to their own desires.

It is in hope, that in so far as this can reach, that a realization is had among the tens and hundreds of millions lives lost, ruined, and oppressed people who have fallen under bloodied boots at the expenses incurred upon their own society that the bourgeoisie and aristocracy designed with their barely written and unforgivable treaties, that like the people of France this entire condition can be seen for the farce that it is. That in knowing this, we may look ahead and see at the end the final hunt of the wolf of capitalism.

The Wolf of Capital, preface

Hou Tsai Tang, Wen Chu Ming, 1933

Gently holding the bird in his hands, he took it out of its cage. It chirped contended as it was gentle placed on the top of the cage where it hopped between the bars. Its feet striking notes on the wire bars as it hoped around in the open space outside of the cage. After a moment, it took to the air and lit to a nearby tree where it hopped between the branches and chirped contentedly among the turning leaves. There was a chill wind blowing from the sea, but Hou Tsai Tang paid it little heed as he turned to his garden.

Laying out a straw mat he went to his work cleaning out the flowers. The pedals had long fallen off and the seed long scattered. Now the dying stems of many of the old flowers were a dry gray shriveled husk that needed to be clipped. With a steady hand and a clear mind he went to work as he listened to the distant humming of the cold gray sea. Behind him from the house a radio was on, playing some classical music, something from the new Chinese style; orchestrated in half a western way but with Chinese instruments. It sounded like an old tune, some long ago ballet dance song or something of the folk variety. The long high strings rose the old peasant's song from rural simplicity to a state of rich complexity.

Cutting the old dead shoots and dropping them into a nearby basket he went about the work, as the small canary sang in the trees, taking in the crisp air. Somewhere passed the roofed pergola that surrounded the garden he heard the sound of a car driving up to the house. He did not stop to look up, and kept at work.

He was still kneeling when he heard footsteps approach. He looked up when he heard the familiar tap of dress shoes on stone tile to see a demure look bureaucrat standing in the shade of the pergola, his thin mousy hair combed in a part down the middle of his head. Nervously, the impish man bowed, holding tight a briefcase and correct his rimless glasses as he rose.

“Comrade.” he began, “Do you need- ah, help?”

Tsai Tang looked up at him, and brushing off his hands shook his head, “I'm fine.” he said. He leaned back, and taking a pose like that of the Buddhist monks adjusted himself, “You here to talk about Ethiopia?”

“I am.” the bureaucrat said, walking forward to one of the tables. He paused as he passed the bird cage and looked over at the open door. “It would seem your bird has... escaped.” he pointed out hesitantly. His words moved carefully, tight with nervous contention.

“It didn't, I just let it out. It's in the tree.” Hou pointed to the tree as he rose. Bright flashes of yellow feathers and chirping bird song sang from the rusty boughs of the tree at the heart of the garden.

The man however was visibly unsure what to make of it, and mumbling quietly to himself put the briefcase down on the table and took a seat. He looked back as Hou was rising, moaning uncomfortably from his stiff joints. The bureaucrat found himself fighting back the urge to ask if he was alright, if the grand secretary of the party and the helmsman of the politburo should be working like this. But he held his tongue.

“Your date to meet with the embassy – for Ethiopia - for formal policy talks is in place. And with the opening of relations with the Empire of Ethiopia, and the presence of the imperial prince Yaqob of Ethiopia,” the man decided to began timidly as Hou walked over, “We've been discussing, us and members of Congress – us as in the Foreign Department - what course of relationship our revolution is to have with the monarchy.”

“Shou Shan has said as much.” Hou said, stopping over the table, “I agree, while this is a positive direction we're at a political cross roads. Even if we don't say so directly, our normalization with the government of Sahle Yohannes represents a question of ideological intent. Concerns have been brought up to me by various members of congress after the fact, I've been kept appraised that there's discontentment with the move, or questions regarding Politburo intent for Ethiopia. They want to know what we may pass along before Congress as legislation surrounding Ethiopian relationships.” It felt like old sock to the chairman. But it was something he felt needed to be aired as he squared the bureaucrat in his gaze.

“And that's why I'm here.” the bureaucrat answered with a thin smile. He showed uneven teeth, “Though I realize this is your house, why don't you ah- sit, I feel... a little uncomfortable like this.”

“I've been sitting most of the day reading letters from Beijing and across the country.” said Hou, making his excuse, “So what do I need to know ahead of time?”

“That first of all, Emperor Sahle is a womanizer and decadent hedonist? That seems to be the general character about him in the back channels. The ambassador will up front say he's a gentle and kind character and I won't disbelieve that personally. But his unofficial activities say he's far more than that. His ministers in turn seem to be more in control of the country than he is. Any sort of future partnerships with Ethiopia should in turn be directed first and foremost towards the key ministers to deal with before anything is passed along to Sahle, I doubt he would care for any details. There's no doubt ceremony involved.” turning his attention from Hou to his notes, the man from the Foreign Department's demeanor became less nervous and more dry, as if reciting a school presentation.

“Recently however there had been a, ah- a murder among the foreign delegations in the capital, at the Rhodesian embassy I believe; a couple months ago. This may have frosted relationships with them. With Rhodesia, I mean. To the emperor's capacity he took interest, but for all that we've been made aware of that sort of interest was short lived.”

“What happened with the murder?” Hou asked, “Is the case closed?”

“No idea.” answered the bureaucrat. “It might stand to reason perhaps Yaqob has been kept appraised. He is the prince, after all. Prince Yaqob.”

“I know.” Hou responded to him dryly, walking slowly about the table, “But I don't think this would be nearly as important as one might think. It'll be a boost to embassy security if anything. Though... how many people would be so bold as to kill an ambassador?”

“In their own embassy.” the bureaucrat stated.

“What else, what other news of Ethiopia?”

“Well, the past summer the Philippine embassy announced a deal between them and the Emperor for economic aid, or assistance, or something. It's been described as a sale or a negotiated deal for the export of coffee cuttings and animal stock. It's perhaps even less important in light of all other things the Philippines have been implicated in. The trade in agricultural stock is hardly going to be effective in their endeavors in Vietnam, their war there; you know.”

“Maybe. But has there been any announcements on their intent to sell? It might be funding.”

The bureaucrat shook his head, “No, comrade. It was a very brief public statement made by the Philippine embassy and that was that. They'd be purchasing several cuttings or seeds from coffee trees from the plantations close to the imperial seat. It could just be for their own use, as far as I know western capitalist markets may be trying to predate them out of existence still so this may be a desperate bid to keep their coffee plantations growing. Perhaps they're not getting the same options elsewhere?”

Hou didn't care. “So, what else. I know Ethiopia was over the summer a supporter for Rhodesia's bid for joining the broader African Congress. How did that fare?”

“Not well at all. I'd hazard the emperor lost a little esteem with the rest of Africa by being the guardian for a colonial state to join their larger political body. Sahle, it might be said is no enemy to colonialism.”

How thought on this. Sahle's likelihood of being a colonial sponsor may give the Chinese leverage against him if they were to play the game, a coup or revolution supported by diplomatic Chinese resources on the grounds of building an anti-colonial coalition? “How is Sahle's support?” he asked.

“It's hit rough winds.”

“In what way?” inquired Hou.

“In Ethiopian backed Swahililand Anarchist militants have recently risen up against the local People's Republic. Jame Lutalo, the chairman of the-”

“Yes, I remember Lutalo.” Hou said brusquely.

“Well, after laying waste to Mombassa he's attracted ire from Communists in the jungle. There's news and stories coming out of Swahililand as well of a Christian militant group, lead by a former American. But details are scarce. It's hard to know what's going in most of Africa. It's a land of darkness... Like, like it's people.” he tried to make a joke. Hou wasn't buying it.

“In any case, Sahle we imagine isn't capable of dealing with the problem either because his court hasn't been made aware of it, or he's tied up with other issues. As of recently the Emperor has run afoul of his vassal in Somalia as the story goes. The Emir of Somalia, Hassan al-Himyari has just recently opened a civil war against the Emperor and they've gone into open battle near to the city of Jijiga in the border area between... Somalia and Ethiopia.

“This is also not overlooking the smaller rebellions that have bloomed elsewhere in Ethiopia and were shut down. But the believe among the Department is that Sahle's control of Ethiopia is tenuous at best.”

“What do we know about the Anarchists?”

The Beaurecrat sat silenced, stunned and in a shaky voice read from his small portfolio on them: “Their party is called Watu wa Uhuru, the Free People. They're localized somewhere in the far, far south. In and around the jungles of I guess some town named Kampala, which is near a lake called Victoria. Sometime over the passed summer the Free People were notable for having rid through the cities on horses and bombed the city.”

“Bombed it? With what?”

“Lit dynamite.”

Like Europe of old. “So do we know their demands?”

“For Lutalo to leave?” we don't know because I doubt anyone in the Ethiopian diplomatic corp or papers knows anything. For what it's worth, the Addis Ababa print is critical.”

“Well, we'll have to do with what we have is best. Do you off hand know if there's anyways to launch our own mission into the area?”

“Diplomatic? I think they'd be seen as trespassing.”

“Doesn't have to formal.”

The man shrugged, “Ask Yaqob.”

“So back to their fighting with Somalia, who's Hassan?”

“Hassan's the son of Hassan al-Himyari, a Somalian freedom fighter that fought with the Ethiopians on the side of the Germans. For his credit in fighting the Italians in Somalia he and his family were given title to the Somali lands. He's credited for a great many battles and lead from a very young age. Legendary even today as a dervish warrior.

“His son, today's Hassan hasn't had the test of any major war as far as we can find out. This is perhaps his first major command, though he hasn't been far from the warrior life. Perhaps a member of modern Somalia's Dervish societies, he's considered a strong man and a capable warrior. If perhaps seen standing.

“He beat Ethiopian squarely in their first battle, but that was the first battle of many and there's an entire war ahead of him. We have yet to see if the Ethiopian military will hold and put up a challenge to him. But for now, they just mobilized and may not be fully organized to deal with it.”

“So why are they fighting?” Hou asked.

“Some personal conflict. Probably an insult.”

Hou nodded, stopping by the drying up remains of some orchid as it slowly turned to give way to the coming winter. Its broad leaves were still green, but they were losing their luster to a temperate gray and the flowers had long fell away. Feeling a rumble in his stomach Hou realized he had not eaten in several hours and thought, it's time for lunch, or almost time for dinner. Perhaps dim sum, something.

“Have you had anything to eat?” he asked the man.

“No, I have not.”

“Do you have dinner plans?” he asked.

“No, I haven't made any.”

“Then step inside. I'll see if the wife will prepare some dumplings and we'll go over details. I have some things I need to talk about to, see what you know and pass along some messages for me about Russia and Vietnam.”

“Wh- oh, ah- why thank you for the invite.” the bureaucrat said rather stunned, disarmed at the thought. “But I couldn't, I'd be imposing.”

“Please, do. I need to eat and I can't stand the thought of a guest not eating too.”

“I can't, I really can't.” the man said out of politeness.

“Please do.”

“Fine, I suppose I'll stay for a few cups of tea and a bowl of rice.”
@Dinh AaronMk i think you should add drive to that list, and then it's perfect

Drive or intent sounds like something that can be divided for the later subject in that application - which I'd also call the character's biography or history - and the actions and narrative for that character in particular.

Writing mostly in Nation RPs with the same or similar format, sometimes I'll add a flag section for fun, but also in this format physical description is replaced with its location on the world map. But more often than not any goals or ambitions the current government has for the RP tends to be kindly included at the end without prompting. By being a history everything written in there would be factors that not only assure me of the context of that nation in the RP world, but also of past events which may be driving motivating factors.

But also being a state, and thus comprised of numerous autonomous actors the player has full writing control over any direction from it might come from the way they have the independent parts interact with one another and effect the course of the state, or the state's interaction with others.

And in much the same way that's how a single character can be motivated or moved about. Albeit they are their own independent actors. Pre-RP history for the character may determine why they are there, which may be the first motivation towards any in-RP motivation.

Mostly I believe much more should be given up to organic development in the RP itself, as it so happens in a story. If you put too much into an application it may trap you into the formalism of staying true to that, where as recognizing events and relationships can change how a character acts and behave and they can evolve from one state to another, and so too can their entire motivations.
The time me and some friends crashed a resort hang out RP, summoning the apocalypse down upon it in search of a robot. The French GIGN were also called. The events ended on the beach in a rap battle.
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet