My personal interpretation of The Void (Hollow Knight)

To be honest, my interpretation of the void is possibly a bit… different than most others you see around. It does appear empty, yet I feel like that emptiness is because of it being above time itself, like, it flat-out can’t have a consciousness like any other thing that exists(if it has a consciousness at all). 

All conscious life in that verse is still bound to time, though wyrms with their foresight can prolly see/sense more of time/timelines in general, and that would likely REQUIRE having a mind that is just built different:™: in order to process that. Meanwhile, the void is unbound by ALL time, it’s ‘seeing’ all of the past, present, AND future all at the same time. Because of the void being so detached to everything going on, with its field of view of time being so vast, it likely can’t really be comprehended by creatures that live in a linear path in time- 

That’s only one part of the equation though, at least in my book, the other is this: It consumes everything about those who fall into it/succumb to it if it can, and I mean EVERYTHING. It does appear to prioritize the minds over the bodies of those it seeks to consume though, honestly, It could also be that in canon the bodies couldn’t reach the void for one reason or another- Pale King was sealed away in a little pocket dimension, the lighthouse keeper could’ve barricaded themselves inside of there before they succumbed, and the only other void-body that I remember seeing was in either queens gardens or greenpath (the one you get the collector key off of)which is… a bit far away from the void. 

It likely dosen't go out of it's way to consume things, mostly passively observing, but instinctively grabbing onto anything that gets too close.

Plus, with the nature of consumption, everything consumed becomes a part of the one that consumes- and with it consuming not only the body but the mind... every memory, sensation, feeling, all just gets… mixed into the dark mass of this thing that is unbound by time and therefore sees and processes things likely SO differently that it’s either incomprehensible, or the, and i mean THE worst overstimulation ever- 

Like I'm thinking, if someone were to comprehend it, it’d likely be a swirling mass of future, present, and past events mixed in with the memories, sensations, and everything else of all the things that have ever been consumed by the void mixed into one single, overstimulating moment. Even if it was just for a second, the aftershocks of just comprehending it fully would prolly cause your brain to just immediately short circuit and shut down due to being so overwhelmed.

Like, to try to describe it, I think that it’d be like suddenly seeing not only 360 degrees around yourself, but also seeing everything else around you in 360, as well as going through all of the taste, touch, smell, hearing, sight, and other sensations of every living thing around you ALL AT ONCE, without changing the way you process information at all.

Sure, the void likely can focus into a specific section of what it sees, (void given focus *nudge nudge*) but without the void actively focusing on a specific thing going on right now at that specific moment in time, it's likely so spread out through quite literally everything that it doesn't register as something that’s actually alive, even if you were to look at it in a much wider perspective- 

tho I also don't think that the void itself is conscious the way other things are, which just adds another layer of alien-ness that's going on-

Hot take: The Barians are the only innocent creatures in all of yugioh

You’re probably wondering what I mean by this, but I have a perfectly sound explanation.

Look at these comparisons. 

Notice anything peculiar? Let’s look a little closer.

That's better.

For those unaware, you may notice that the Barians lack a “mouth”. A mouth is “the opening in the lower part of the human face, surrounded by the lips, through which food is taken in and from which speech and other sounds are emitted.”

Why is this important? Well, because a mouth is an essential piece of the body part to engage in the act of Vore. Since Barians lack the ability to vore due to their own anatomy, they are unable to vore ever. In fanart or in the show, these angels are incapable of being involved in any of that stuff. They’re completely in the safe zone, they’re untouchable as far as the show puts them because you can’t do anything with these guys in THAT specific situation.

BUT WAIT, i hear yall typin away with a rebuttal

With the the introduction of Vrains, there exist another species of creatures without mouths—the Ignises. 

Examining the images above, this other unique species also lack these crucial mouths, so you could argue that there are 2 Yu-Gi-Oh groups that are entirely sinless. And this is a fair argument without the context of what the Ignises could do.

But could that could they do exactly?

These images say it all. They could absolutely do that within the canon of yugioh.

So without a doubt, Ignises have the wholly ability to vore other creatures with ease. And this isn’t a one-off thing either, like they did it once and that was it. Ai is shown to have done this on multiple occasions within LINK VRAINS, his homeworld, presumably in a natural form. It is safe to assume that the Ignises absorb data and dismantle prey like this.

Knowing this, Barians ARE the only creatures incapable of voring.

But I hear you screaming. “But Dyzarc, you cranky dragon you, whadda bout anal vore? Cock vore? Absorption! Plus they have HUMAN forms, too. WITH MOUTHS which means the Barians are fully capable of eating! Theyre no different than any other ygo char!”

You could make those arguments, but I also have several points to refute this.

First, the human forms.

You could say that their human forms exist so that they can vore in that sense. That’s a very reasonable assumption.

And yes.

Yes, they could do that.

Yet, human form isn’t really Barian. It’s kind of off-canon, in a sense. They only took that form because Earth is hazardous to their bodies and they cannot maintain their true forms in that unnatural state. Within the closed system of their own environment (or Barian World), which is what I care about, the Barian species does not naturally have a mouth or a human body and therefore cannot partake in that act, canon or otherwise.

Furthermore, if a person wants to draw or write vore involving a Barian  as the predator, they simply cannot do it. They must turn the Barian into a human or face the simple fact that Barians cannot vore (or a third option*).

*Theoretically, you could slap a mouth onto them or imply that a mouth exists underneath their muzzle, which only reveals itself when the Barian needs it. However, this is no different than giving a snake tiddies or putting legs on a shark just to fulfill a kink.

Secondly, I’ll focus on the other vore methods by showing pictures of some raw Barian crotches.

Now I may be blind as an olm, but they are clearly naked around the groin area. They lack any visible extremities that could be considered an anus or a cock too. Unless their anatomy works similarly to reptiles as in these organs are hidden behind a thin layer of rock around their crotch and only protrude when it is needed, they lack any organs that can perform cock or anal vore. 

Excluding their physical appearance, Barians are canonically born from a circumstance other than, say, laying eggs or live birth or asexual reproduction. Meaning if they DO have those body parts, it’ll be a vestigial structure with no other purpose than to sit there and look stalactitey, probably kinda gross-looking considering what they are. 

Of course a “cock” could function like the giant claw of a fiddler crab, where it’s mainly just for show to prove who has the biggest one (and so deserving of their territory, which is why Nasch is the leader. I’ll get into this later on why this could be the case) as well as to help them fight, find a mate, or exert their dominance.

Also, although I do not believe this image represent the entirety of Barian physiology

It is most likely that their insides consist mainly of veins and a... heart?? A star fragment, ball of spike? Whatever the case, I don’t see a stomach pouch nor do the Barians have a reason to have such a thing. The lack of a mouth and stomch makes sense in the “overarching picture” of how a Barian functions. Think about it from a human perspective. Why do we eat? Humans require food in order to produce energy to survive, grow, and reproduce, plain and simple. 

Barians, on the other hand, live in a toxic environment void of life other than themselves. They do not need to eat for there is nothing to eat.

My personal theory is that they don’t require energy through consumption of food items like humans do. They either get it from photosynthesizing since their sun appears to be very close to their planet

Or maybe the "heart” is some sort of radioactive material that supplies them with an ample amount of energy. This powerful energy surges through the body through the help of the “roots” and essentially fuels them with life without the need for the consumption of food. My assumption is that the Barian itself is the roots and hearts, while everything else is just a rocky mass separate from the actual thing (im not gonna go super in-depth into the mind-body dualism thing btw. Just think about as a hermit crab with a shell with the “shell” being made of minerals)

And if we bounce off the idea that the shell is composed of minerals, or a rock, thus being very susceptible to erosion and damage as seen in how Vector broke pieces of his body during one of the duels

They most likely naturally regenerate their body parts by burying themselves deep into the ground so that the Rock Cycle 

can repair and grow their forms. See, this process does not require food (which fits into their biology very well) and instead mandates that the Barian digs deep enough to begin the process of melting down its old, damaged body. The heart and roots will remain above the metling point of course; in fact, they play a crucial role in getting the Barian back into its proper shape. After reforming a new shell, the Barian emerges from the ground like a bunch of baby sea turtles, completely healed as long as the “molt” wasn’t disturbed. 

Furthermore, this molting cycle could explain the presence of any “cocks” found within the Barian. Molting is extremely energy-consuming and time-consuming; rushing a molt will result in an imperfect shell or other impurities, or death if the impurity is life-threatening. The hardness, body structure, addition of any extra parts, and safe resurfacing, or preventing their new bodies from being damaged as they emerge from the ground, also depends on how well the Barian could alter the temperature and pressure of its surroundings magma (molten rock) to result in the best possible shell. This means that the Barians with poor molts are young and inexperienced while Barians with the best molt are old and experienced. 

(hey can u find a better pic, this one isnt a good example)

This also works with how a big “cock” (in an abstract sense) could show their dominance over the other Barians. Or, in this case, the cock is actually extra formations to show off what they are capable of. Regular and large racks, for example, showcase a Barian’s skill at creating a new shell, with the larger and more angular the rack, the more powerful or experienced they are. This is especially difficult to do at a consistence rate, so the Barians capable of carrying it off tend to be on top of the pecking area. Nasch’s abilities to create so many horns means he’s deserving of his spot as the leader. 

The Barian pecking order probably goes down the list on how complex—in that they managed to form a perfect, angular rack—their composition is. 

Obviously, the chart simplifies what makes a great Barian. The Barian pecking order is much more complex than this.

For example, Mizael, despite the complexity in parts of the body like the face “mask”, is lower in the hierarchy than expected. Why? There is a lot to dissect about Barian physiology, but a peculiar detail is their carapaces. Unlike the rest of the body, which consist of a rocky formation, Mizael’s mask is a carapace. This could be easily seen when Nasch was briefly seen without these carapaces in this scene.

As seen on bodies of these Barians, they appear to have many carapaces which are separate from their main bodies, such as: 

These carapace could be involved in the pecking order. The fineness and sharpness of the carapaces gives the illusion of strength (notice that Nasch is covered in carapaces while Durbe practically has none) as well as adding to their maximum size.

But they could also play another vital role...  Defense Mechanism

It may sound strange, but I believe that Barians are built solely for defense.... 

Let’s take a look at a creature whose behavior and structural patterns mimics the Barians, the noble Hermit Crab.

I like to compare these two species due to their essentially parallelism in terms of “form follows function” such as:

(Marine Hermit Crab adding extra defenses to its shell using a venomous sea anemone; similar to a Barian adding sharp carapaces to its already tough, rocky exterior)

Comparing the likeness of the two, it could be assumed that the carapaces provide extra protection over the Barians’ main defense (rocky shell). The carapaces aren’t involved in the molting cycle, of course, due to their complicated build. It’ll be a massive waste to destroy them. Since a Barian could remove them at will, they most likely store the pieces above ground (or above melting point) and molt without them. After they finish molting, they retreive the carapaces. Again, very similar to the molting process of a hermit crab.

It may feel like I am going on a tangent of Barian anatomy rather than focus on their ability, or thereby lack of, to vore, but these details can be used to explain why Barians cannot vore from a historical standpoint.

They cannot vore because they are built like a prey. 

Like hermit crabs, they are “bottom-feeders” with no prey of their own—mostly in part due to the absence of food on their home planet. Instead of being designed like a predator with the capability to vore, a mouth, they are the exact opposite in that they have only the defensive capabilities to defend themselves against a predator.

So following this, if there is a strong need for defensive pressure, who is the offensive pressure? A creature cannot be so defensively driven (thick shell, regeneration, armor, etc.) without the presence of a harmful force.

If it isn’t obvious, their predator are the aqueous Astral Beings. 

Astral Beings are the perfect Barian predator (perhaps co-evolution played a part in this, or y’kno eliphas just said fuck those guys, lets kill em). 

Moving along, not only are they armed with mouths, water is one of the natural forces that could heavily erode rocks, as seen along beaches, rivers, and cliff-sides, into a pile of sand and mud. Barians, with their outermost covering consisting of rock, are especially vulnerable to being broken down by the Astral Beings, exposing their sensitive cores to a likely death. 

Their main defense against this is either: 

(1) Regeneration, they can drop limbs and endure damage to their shell without fear of death, then repair any injuries during their molt

(2) Armor, the sharp carapaces (made of metals that can withstand water) can ward off potential attackers

A third defense that follows the how Astral Beings vore Barians in a predator/prey relationship could also be seen in the habitat of the Barians, or the presence of the Sea of Ill Intent. 

Instead of being made of water, the sea is made of a very strong acid. Why is this important? For any of you that took a chemistry course, the proper technique of mixing acid and water (i.e the Astral Being), you must add acid into the water in that order. The flow of acid into water mixes the two better, preventing a reaction to occur. Adding water into acid, on the other hand, causes the water to react with the acid due to poor initial mixing, causing it to boil and potentially explode.

For this case, the rocky exterior of the Barian allows them to be submerged into the acid without risk of immediate death. Unless the Astral Being wants to harm itself by going into the acid to pursue its prey, they most likely will abandon the prey. If the acid starts to dissolve Barian’s shell (say, the Astral Being attempting to stakeout the Barian) they could regenerate the broken pieces during their next molt.

So not only Barians cannot vore, but they are hapless prey at that! 

They are far from helpless prey—in the same way a Rhinoceros is considered a prey animal—but there is plenty of evidence that lead up to the fact they are indeed a prey species. 

And the fact that they are the bottom of the barrel scavenger, harmless, unable to be a fearsome predator, only a potential prey at best...

They’re just innocent.

Now you say “Kay Dyzarc, ya made me read a longass analysis on the biology of a bunch of space rocks to prove some sickass vore fantasy of yours. Now what. What was the point.” 

Welcome to Zarc n’ Pals, installment 1 baby, strap in for a wild ride

Phoenix Protocol 04

A Zavala x Female Guardian work.

Summary: When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Dawnblade.

Previously

She makes sure to get there early. Ghost is barely awake - which is saying something for a being that does not actually require sleep like she does. Quietly, carefully, she withdraws her notepad from her bag and rests it carefully atop the books he’d lent her. Her hand is cramping a bit this morning, likely from training the night before, but she ignores it as she holds her pen. It will pass. The skin is healed, the regenerated nerves just aren’t immune to the knowledge of what they’d suffered. She focuses, meditating on what she’s read in the last day or so, and waits for Zavala and his trainees to arrive.

A lot of what she’d read was philosophical. What it meant to be a Titan. What they stood for. At first, she’d believed it to be impractical to rely on such knowledge. But, as she read onward, she realized he’d chosen these texts for a reason. He was hoping for her to find a commonality.

Light could be - and often was - measured in terms of enemies vanquished, in the amount of time the Guardian can manifest the pinnacle of their bond to the Traveler. She knows her benchmarks, and clearly he believes she’s measured them (she has). It was incredibly flattering, she felt, for him to care as he did. Not to say that he didn’t have some connection to her, being the leader of the Vanguard, but even so. The fact that he’d had a short conversation with her and still managed - despite his schedule - to select books for her to read meant a lot.

She’d joked with Ghost that she must be pathetic if one person being nice meant such a great deal to her, that maybe she needed to get out more. She didn’t miss the sad twitch of his cones. Miyu knows he’s worried, and this isn’t something that gets fixed with hugs and conversation. They’ve talked themselves in circles about her Light. She needs to find a way to fix it. For Ghost, for herself, for everyone else who is counting on her - whether they realize it or not.

In the course of her thoughts on the subject, she’s considered the liability she is for teammates on strikes. She could, in an emergency, draw up the necessary power - she hopes - for Dawnblade in its entirety. But it would maim her, easily, if not worse. She’d be useless after that. And in a Darkness Zone… it was suicide. A last resort.

At last, Zavala emerges from one of the training corridors, eight Titans in tow. Three women, based on their builds, two exo males, and one very tall, slender Awoken male followed the Vanguard closely. Two others walked further behind the main group. Based on their measured, confident gait, and the gear that looked a bit higher quality than that of the others, she guessed they might not be as new as the rest.

The Titans’ Vanguard immediately set about making them work through a series of drills - warm-ups - to get the blood flowing. His eyes cant up to her, and she nods to him. His face was impassive, unreadable, and he returns his gaze to the rest of the group after a single blink.

Afterward, he begins discussing their connection to the Void. “The Void’s voracity,” He imparts, voice carrying loud enough for her to hear, “While certainly a factor to consider, is not nearly as demanding within us as it is in Warlocks and Hunters. It does, however, require a clear mind and true intent to wield, all the same. Even if your resolve is not to care how many fall at your feet,” Zavala continues. “You must become impenetrable. Your body a shield, your Light a wall. A fortress in which your allies may seek refuge from the storm.”

It takes time for the Light to well inside a Guardian. While Zavala gives them that time, he calls upon his Traveler-given ability. Cool, lavender-violet light surrounds him in a bubble of unstoppable Light. She can feel the cool ripple of Void energy, even as far away from him as she is. It’s different from the handful of times she’s seen Ikora utilize her Nova Bomb. The hunger that the Void feels is muted, as if he is doing to the Void what the Void does to others. Feeding off of it, and it off of him. A cyclic event, she hypothesizes, jotting down a brief summary of it.

The hazy-cool pulse of it makes whatever he says to his students impossible for her to hear, but she watches with interest as he stops bracing the dome of light and allows it to simply exist. She is certain that newer, unsteady Titans would likely have to brace the entire time, which is effective as a defensive maneuver, but for an experienced Titan - and from her experience working with some of them - it is actually a small pocket of space summoned to give them an advantage.

He shows them what it feels like to be shielded within the Ward, stepping out of it and back in with each of them in turn. An overshield - she knew about this perk of the Titan’s ability. They all radiate a similar pale purple when they step inside, making their forms look extremely distorted from her outsider’s point of view.

Later, after exhausting them with calling upon their own fledgling abilities, he invites them all to attempt to break his shield.

He stands inside it plainly, arms at his sides. Does not move to attack. Does not attempt to defend. A cockier man would sit down within it and close his eyes, wait for it to be over. Maybe even make a snarking comment at the fact that there was not even a ripple in his Ward, that it sustained minimal damage. Zavala does not. When they are all panting, overwhelmed by their leader’s great strength and resolve, he encourages them to take a break, water themselves and then join him in meditating on what they have learned before returning to the Tower to begin their day.

Miyu follows along, returning to the bleachers instead of standing beside one of the structural supports, allowing breath to fill her lungs and her mind to clear. Meditation is centering, and she allows herself to reflect on her questions, on Solar and Void, their burning demanding need to consume and feed.

Feed the void and it grows colder. Numbs. Consumes.

Feed a solar fire and it grows hotter. Burns. Consumes.

She repeats the mantra until she drifts away.

When her eyes opens, she sees a candle. One singular light against the darkness all around her.

“What can one light do,” A warped voice asks, “When faced with such overwhelming darkness?”

The question is rhetorical, she thinks. The Warlock commits the sight to memory and chooses to observe. She approaches the candle hovering in midair before her.

“The Light lives in all places, in all things.”

Miyu repeats the words. Somewhere. She thinks she’s heard this somewhere.

“You can block it, even try to trap it,” It continues, “But the Light WILL find its way.”

There is a pause, as the candle’s light grows, crackling and spitting as the flames give way to a roaring fire. The twisted voice softens, and the flames consume her but do not hurt. It has been so long since the fire of her Light has not burned.

“Even in you, though broken you may seem.”

Her eyes flash open and Ghost is hovering in front of her, looking concerned. “You were mumbling,” He says. “You never mumble when you meditate. What-”

Miyu’s chest heaves as her eyes widen, her words rushing out quietly. “I think I... had a vision.”

“You what?” Ghost stares at her. “About what?”

“The Light,” His Guardian says, voice low but giddy. “Candles. Bonfires. It’s - I don’t know how to explain it.”

“We should talk to Ikora,” The small AI tells her. “She will know what to-” Ghost shrugs his shell and groans. “You’re shaking your head no. Why are you shaking your head no?”

“I don’t - She isn’t who I want to talk to about this,” Miyu whispers. “Can we talk to Zavala instead? He said he’d answer my questions, anyway.”

Ghost bobs up and down, thinking. “I suppose… but, if he suggests talking to Ikora, you should.”

Miyu scoffs. “You know he will.”

“I do,” Ghost agrees. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t get both of their opinions, right?” He understands and agrees with her reservations about Ikora, but there’s no doubt that she is the most knowledgeable person in the Tower and best equipped to discuss this with his Guardian. “If you don’t agree with her, that’s fine, Yu-mi. But you should hear her out. She is your Vanguard.”

“Fine,” The Warlock agrees, reluctantly.

A small drone and a flash of light alerts them to the presence of another Ghost. “Hi,” She says, in a child-like, sweet voice as she swivels to regard them both. “Zavala wanted me to let you know that he’s been called away. He said that you should check in with him later, if you have a moment. When I figure out when he also has a moment,” She says in a child’s version of sarcasm,” I’ll ping your Ghost.”

Miyu nods, a bit caught off guard by the tone of the rather formidable man’s Ghost. She’d expected it to be an icy, frigid female, or a similarly reserved male. Instead of voicing such a thought, the Warlock simply insists, “That is fine.” The Ghost spins and prepares to transmat back to her Guardian in reply. “Um, Ghost, I-” The little bot turns back to her, single eye blinking curiously. “Thank him for me, please. This was helpful.”

“I will!” She chirps, bobbing excitedly as she departs.

When she’s gone, Miyu’s partner says, “Huh. That was not what I was expecting.”

“Me neither,” The Warlock agrees.

Cathexis; the concentration of mental energy on one particular person, idea, or object (especially to an unhealthy degree).

Hanzo’s mind may be made of stardust; potent when agglomerated with such explosive intensity, infinitesimal when his scattered subconscious does not sparkle like everyone else. He will never be over the cruel joke of the universe, as his spine and skull had been ripped from his collapsed body, as crimson spectacle beneath the quagmire of his abrupt death consumed him in the flames, as the smoke escapes his dying lungs and ponder the possibility of what he already had become. Maybe sadness for him is metaphorically and figuratively beautiful, but being caged into a dilemma where it turns as a depression without assurance, for the future is what sucks the life out of him. His anhedonia - the loss of pleasure, but truly, what it really means to him is a symptom revealing the onset of his next depressive episode. 

He can feel his mind deteriorating again in a slow, painful death. He both knows what is coming and yet, doesn’t know how to stop it. This is his inevitable truth, because he is bound and destined to be defined by the mind that he is confined to. And it had taken Hanzo so long to allow himself to be loved, to gently pry open the iron doors of his heart and not slam the gate shut whenever someone else gets too close. Despite him trying to learn to not let fear stop him from the greatest thing he’s ever known, he remains vulnerable and fragile without true warmth and security. The cataclysmic swings of the katana would be the one permanently etched in his brain, as the frightened lips shout Harumi and Satoshi’s name in his exsanguination and hemorrhaging heart. Somewhere, and somehow, he would anchor it deep in his body and soul forever and struggle beneath the flames of a bonfire, which becomes Scorpion’s world. The one that would rule his sky, staring the minute of his rebirth as an eternally burning Phoenix.

Then, he would be in peace. Silence, blessed release of the mind and spirit flows through his core as the infinite expanses of time stretch beneath him. He sees his own death - death of Scorpion - an end in violence and in peace, alone at the edge of time. But there is nothing that stretches beyond. It is as if time cuts short just as he slips into the void, and all else fades to black. Does time cease to exist beyond his passing? Or is this death truly a fixed point in the continuum? He has mastered death and cheated it along the way with his resurgence, but not to the point where he believes he is beyond such a thing. The hellfire has been kind to him, for he has refused to allow himself to succumb entirely as his human heart has redeemed itself. 

An examination of the stench of hate and mistrust reveals as how Sub-Zero buries within his hearts; all the disjointed apparitions of ghosts of former expectations. Now, it settles into the acrid soot beneath their feet, like liquid sand draining out from a shattered bottle. As Kuai Liang, he had carried unending hope within him, as like distant stars, the thoughts of their shared memories sharpen against the agglomerating dark. His heart remains a slow plane scared to take flight, because he feels falling with aberration, discontentment, abomination, perhaps melancholic guilt as their brotherly, familial relationship never blossomed, despite all the gathered velocity of their shared determinedness and discipline. And Sub-Zero would be destined for a pained life that was full of grief, loss and forsakenness. That was what he was given, and the destiny the universe has given himself would take on its toll as Kuai Liang’s heart would be frozen, his gaze colder than his own cryomancy. But the arctic coleness would never plunge the entirety of Kuai Liang into an inevitable void, as the goodness and purity of his heart would persist and put a bulwark against such opposition. 

Even when he feels like falling, as his cold, frozen heart slowly, gradually melts beneath amalgamation of emotions; his brain has been falling and God has never been on his side, but he would continue to trudge through the narrow passage of redeeming Bi-Han from the wretched curse that is Quan Chi’s darkest magic. Even knowing some flowers are never meant to bloom and a life he remembers led him into a beginning that became another and then there were only remnants that helped distinguish what Sub-Zero is in essentiality.

He’s an eternal dreamer, with a fabricated permafrost of his heart continuing to beat as the goodness and aspiration of hope that doesn’t stop believing. In this case, his glassy eyes reflect an equilibrium of disgust and despair. His love and hate is a pinpoint star in the galaxy as he would harden himself to become well-accustomed to the leaking torment and grief spilling out as he soliloquies, he watches it disembogue into a river, and course through him through his most battered and bruised places. No matter how many years had been passed and no matter how long he effortlessly tried to tame such irritatingly fickle thing that was his grievance, it would wound around the bend and curve of his muscled planes and refuse to vanish out of his sight in self-deprecation. And Sub-Zero himself would sink into deathly silence as accumulated energy, volatile and unforgiving, stirs within his core. Such energy that benefited the humanity and bringing order of the Lin Kuei forming furious hurricanes as he grows old. Would he ever chase away his eternal solitude and let himself be grounded by love, no matter what kind it would become?

Brink (Prologue)

We live in a universe that is infinitely expanding. From the farthest reaches of space, life of all shapes and forms have been able to gain a foothold in the ever-growing realm of disorganization. Be it through complete luck or stubbornness to survive, life has found a way on many different planets.

The planet Earth is one such place. Millions upon millions of years of hardship from both the universe and otherworldly beings have put this planet to the test, and yet it remains as one of the beacons of hope for any life forms in the galaxy. For with everything that Earth has been through, it is a wonder how it can possibly still survive.

In previous years, the Earth and its kind were visited by another group of sentient beings. Ones that far surpassed any of its life forms in both technology and intelligence. A life form that never grew old or died. These beings referred to themselves as ‘gems’.

Earth was originally intended to be their colony in their ever-expanding empire. A new place where they could continue to grow their kind and make it a place where they could thrive. Yet through those years of trying to make it what they wanted, not everyone was alright with the things being done to so many worlds.

A great civil war broke out between two factions of the gems. One side holding loyalty to the ways that they always knew, and the other pledging themselves to a new leader that wanted them to be free and choose what it was they did with their lives. For you see, the battle was for far more than just the one planet. It was also for a new balance of power. 

While that conflicted lasted a long time, it was eventually ended with the loyalists leaving the planet and rendering the surface toxic to their kind. With the end of the war, organic life reclaimed it’s place as the dominant of the Earth, leaving behind only a few of those rebel gems.

While that war had an end, we must not forget that there are far more creatures in the universe then any would dare think of, and not all conflicts come to an end so quickly.

Far off a vastly different stretch of the cosmos, there was another war being waged. Another civil war, but this one seemed to be without end. For millions of years, the planet of Cybertron has been home to a long, brutal war between its inhabitants. The creatures of this world were vastly different than that of gems or humans. These beings were large, sentient, autonomous robots.

On one side of this never-ending war were the Autobots, the victors of a previous war that led to them ruling over Cybertron for a time. Ones that sought to keep all together and to allow for a peaceful existence with each other. On the other end, there were the Decepticons. A ruthless faction that sought nothing but power and complete domination over all of the planet’s inhabitants.

The war has torn the planet apart, leaving almost nothing left to fight for. That is, until a great event that had changed the course of the future for not only the Autobots and Decepticons but for the entirety of Cybertron as a whole. So great is this danger, that it has not only brought the war to a standstill but also forced the inhabitants of the planet to unite, lest they both be destroyed. 

While these three species have never met all at once, this threat is something that affects every being that exists. Something so much large than any of them combined. Something that is nearly as old as time itself.

The universe is a strange and open place, filled with many things that most of us could never imagine. There are things out there that many wished they never found out about. What is this looming threat that brought a war to a halt? What could be so massive that it threatens the very balance of all life? What is this menace that could go unnoticed for so long, but now appear to be the demise of anything in it’s path?

Only one thing is certain: No one is safe while it still lurks out there.

In the far-off edges of gem controlled space, there was a small colony on small, remote planet. Like many of the other worlds that gem kind controlled, this planet was used to create more of their kind, but it was also a launching point for many operations to further advance their presence.

On the surface, the planet is alive with activity. Gems going about their duties as they usually do. Be it helping with the manufacturing of more gems, or simply being in their place of duty as guards. Whatever it may be, each gem had a purpose, and they were fulfilling it. Everything was as it should be. 

Until an early warning alarm sounded in the orbital control station. 

Inside of the station, three gems were suddenly jolted into surprise, causing them to look out the window of their post to see what was causing the alarm to sound. What they saw was something that none of their eyes had ever beheld.

At first glance, it looked almost like a giant planet that was heading directly towards them but, upon looking more carefully at it, one could see that there were several distinct differences to it. The first one being the giant ring that was formed around, looking like a massive string of smaller planets and other masses. Yet the most prominent feature to anyone looking at it was the giant hole in the center of it. Almost making it look like some sort of eye or mouth. Around this opening were two very large pincer like appendages. It was simply alien in all ways.

“What in the name of the Diamonds is that?” one of the quartz asked.  

“Who cares? It’s about to be in a million pieces.” a Peridot said, hitting a button on the control panel in front of her.

With the press of that button, several towers on the planet began to spring to life, revealing themselves as laser defense towers. They all turned toward the incoming mass, firing shortly after they were all locked in.

Sure that the planetary defense systems would destroy whatever it was that was approaching them, the gems simply looked onward confidently. There had never been anything out there had matched their technology, and this thing would surely be no different. Or, so they thought.

The lasers made contact with the incoming object, but they appeared to do nothing at all to it. Floored by the fact that the first blast had done nothing, the gems ordered for the defense to keep firing, thinking that it would stop it from coming.

Yet no matter how much firepower they put to it, the incoming planet never slowed down. As it got closer, more of its details could be seen, now revealing that, whatever this thing was, was made of metal.

Knowing that they were out of options, the ones in the orbital station knew that they had to warn everyone on the planet of what was coming. Pressing another button on the console, they sounded an alarm on the surface, letting all gems know to evacuate at once.  

When the strange metallic being got close enough, the opening that was so prominent on it began to glow, so how opening up even further. The giant pincers around the opening began to bear down into the planet's surface, seemingly starting to pull it into the opening.

“Get to the ships! It’s our only chance!” One gem shouted, running for the nearest escape vessel. Not everyone was so lucky though. While many were making it to ships, even more were being forcibly pulled into the strange beings giant, gaping maw.

As it continued to seemingly devour the planet, many ships were unable to take off and fell victim to the same fate as those who didn't make it in time. In addition, those ships that did manage to take off were not safe once they were off the surface. Many more were pulled back by what felt like a gravitational pull, meeting the same fate as those still on the planet.

Inside the enormous mechanical beast, the devoured planet and everything on it were being pulverized, ground up and liquidated to seemingly feed this behemoth. To make everything it consumed into energy for itself.

And just like that, the planet was gone. Where once was a bustling and thriving community of gem kind, was now nothing but a large empty void left behind by something that no gem had any explanation for.

Far away from where the planet once was, there was one ship that managed to escape from the creatures pull. Looking back, the survivors knew they were lucky to have gotten away. But, more importantly, they needed to get back to homeworld. The Diamonds needed to be informed of this.  

model of youth: the argument for shivers as a timeless classic

( outdated, has since been rewritten, please don’t read this - it is very bad. )

 A timeless classic, as defined by someone who has no business defining it, is a song which can be sung over and over, recreated and expanded upon countless times, covered relentlessly, occasionally even rewritten, and never loose it’s charm. A song that sticks in the consciousness of the listener for days, weeks, months, even years after. A song which, when it comes on ages after your previous hearing of it, still shoots a bullet against your heart and fills your veins with an excitement similar to the first hearing.

 Be it on a jukebox in a desolate diner at midnight, or a genius DJ spins it coincidentally while you’re at a retro night. This song is vicarious, it exists within all listeners without them even realising it. These songs become the anthems of many people’s youths, the rallying cry of the peaks of hundreds of lives, and on many an unfortunate circumstance they can also become reminders of the most miserable of moments and heartbreaks. Timeless classics follow you throughout your entire life and, generally speaking, they get twenty four seven radio play.

 You find yourself mumbling along to songs like ‘Hotel California’ in the grocery line on an average Tuesday afternoon, and you think to yourself; “not this shit again.” And once more on the car ride home, and then again from your obnoxious neighbour some time in the middle of the night. What I’m saying is, these tracks are inescapable.

 Yet one of the remaining mysteries of these songs, is what truly makes them ? What arrangement of chords, what series of notes, which mixture of syllables construct such an ageless song ? Must you be a relative of Christ ? Or a martyr ? Or a starving artist ?  Or a Kerouac-like, perpetual escapist, constantly down-on-their-luck sporadic potential lunatic raving on the side of the road ? Or do must you be simply a fragile sixteen year old, on the edge of the rest of your life, glancing over a crowd of your peers with a shield of cynicism over your judgemental eye ?

  There’s a connotation to the underdog superstar case that implies you rise against the muck and reach the heights of The Eagles and Queen in the array of singles known by millions. You scrape off your shabby exterior for a new, cover of Rolling Stone magazine look.

 The closest thing to this phenomena I can think of is Nirvana's 1991 ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’ which effectively ruined the careers of hundreds of up and coming (and significantly better) acts, but nonetheless gave voice to America’s newfound league of self professed rejects. This track, the main hallmark of grunge, gave rise to an influx of copycats and remained as such forever. This song must play on every alternative radio station in the world at least three times a day, and it never leaves. À la the underground rises to the pop. Naturally, this is the way of not only bands like Nirvana and Queen, who have produced numerous hits, but also the way of many one hit wonders. Mainly hailing from the 1980s, bands like A Flock of Seagulls, Dexys Midnight Runners, and The Vapors find themselves being known only by one song. But these are songs they collect royalties on for ages to come. These one hit wonders still benefit, our narcotic expression of heartbreak and sarcasm, does not.

 Unless you are an avid consumer of “obscure” of music or lived through it yourself, our subject is more than likely unknown to you. But I’m here to make the case for it, the case that it belongs not just in the ranks of these timeless classics, but far above them in a personal luminescent garland hung up by the edges of the stars which surround it. It is today we discuss Rowland S. Howard’s seminal and deathless 1976 masterpiece ‘Shivers.’

There are many songs worth boasting about and there are many songs that I have heard that have taken me aback growing up, having been raised on the likes of Bauhaus and the Damned I found myself in quite a stir of eclectic individuals. As a child I idolised Dave Vanian for his looks, Peter Murphy for his voice and theatrics, fell head over heels for Stiv Bators (though at the time I had no idea who he was), and by the age of ten was certain I’d heard it all. An arrogant thought to hold, I know, but we all think these things at some point in time in our lives.

I had only known of Nick Cave as a figure who I had been described to me as simultaneously on top of the world and beneath it as well. Although intrigued by the notion of living a dual life, I had no interest in delving into his career. At the time I was too transfixed by Jarvis Cocker to care for much else and was in a state of rejection towards anything that was considered to be “gothic rock” and had recognised “Release the Bats” as the anthem of  the Batcave era. Needless to say, being raised by an original new waver and a death rocker, I didn’t care.

 I wish I could describe to you an idyllic scenario, perhaps one in which I happened past a cracked window blasting the song, or a miraculous vinyl find, but my discovery of Rowland S. Howard was fairly typical. I had been lying in my father’s bed, staring up at the off grey ceiling and ignoring his musical choice until the distinct sound of a piano had caught my attention. Due to this instrument being an unusual occurrence in my father’s selection, I immediately ripped out my headphones to listen.

Now I must make an important distinction here. It was not the voice of Nick Cave that drew me in, nor was it really the instrumentation of the track, but the first lyric. “I’ve been contemplating suicide / But it really doesn’t suit my style.” I had propped myself up on my elbows, a smile spreading across my lips, and peered over my father’s shoulder at the computer screen displaying a pale man of puppet-like features forcing out lyrics he didn’t seem to gather. It was evident from the get go that this song was not nearly as emotional as it was being portrayed, and for this I adored it. I’d had enough of love songs, I practically adamantly rejected love songs with my every move. So this beautiful expression of sarcasm was right up my alley.

I had jumped to my feet, now standing directly behind my father who knowingly smiled up at me. My question of “Who did this?” was not answered adequately, as he responded simply with “Nick Cave.” I had taken another look at the singer, who looked like a Nick, and then took note of the name. “Boys Next Door, Shivers.”

This lyric stayed with me for weeks, eating me up like a parasite. It was all I needed to hear, and in such a ballroom manner as well. When I close my eyes and look past the iconic music video, I always envision a darkened high school gym during prom, couples awkwardly embracing each other for a slow dance they’ll regret immediately after. I was out for blood with this one, and made it my main directive to know about every aspect of it.

As I had assumed, the song was written by the guitar who was carrying the track (I say guitar as Howard and his Jaguar may as well be one being), the pale bird-like figure who was only shown briefly. With just a few searches, I’d come across the original recording of the song with Howard on vocals by the Young Charlatans.

Upon first listen I couldn’t wipe the smirk off of my face. This was the delivery I had been searching for, a voice with a vaguely quivering edge to it to accentuate the obvious derisiveness of the lyrics. I adored it, and furthermore I adored the brittle looking boy who sung it. This would lead to finding my first true inspiration in Rowland, but that is a tale for another rant.

What strikes me so much about ‘Shivers’ is its malleability. This is evident in the contrast between the original Young Charlatans version and the more popular Boys Next Door version. Though Howard would later confess to having never exactly perfected the track the way he desired, to a loving fan like myself, it is more than immaculate, especially the original which stays more true to its initial intent.

Rowland asserts his outlook with just enough versatility that at first glance one could assume the sentiments written to be genuine, but he sings much how he speaks in this version with a sense of sarcasm which gives the version more character. In Cave’s version, he belts the lyrics out in a heart wrenching manner which implies nothing short of pure devastation. But it is this difference in interpretation with highlights the reason this song is everlasting.

In order for a song to reach a large portion of people’s hearts, it needs to voice a passion powerful enough to mean something but vague enough to be seen through any man’s eyes. These kinds of songs are difficult to make to stand the test of time. Many fall on one end of the spectrum or the other, either too specific therefore dating it or too vague therefore rendering it void.

Shivers, however, rests itself perfectly in the in between. It hits the sweet spot, to put it simply. Though it may not have been Rowland’s intention to create something which could be made into anything other than what it is, one must admit that art is nothing without subjectivity. The beauty of this song is that it can fit you, it can fit me, it can fit your neighbor, in any way possible. It is endless in its outreach to others. As perhaps Warhol would argue, it is perfect in it’s ability to be recreated. So many of the songs you think of as classics have been covered innumerably, despite their interpreted worth or quality, and yet still stand as an individual piece separate from not only the entirety of the artist’s discography - but from the rest of the musical realm itself.

Shivers does this impeccably. It is everything you want it to be, all whilst remaining so much more. And though to many it may be seen as hard to swallow, it settles inside you despite an initial shock. Shivers glides through perception with ease, aided by many beautiful voices which has carried it throughout the years, and was born exquisite.

- LM

Dark Souls Lore Rambling #3

So this one got kind of out of hand. Get it? Because Manus? Ha, I did this instead of a cover letter.

The Dark, the Dark Soul, and Humanity

So, most of us know the Dark and the Dark Soul from that giant gaping ring of fire that doesn’t actually look as cool when we see it on our characters. The Dark Sign is a hole of nothing ringed by fire, presumably constantly and silently emitting a Johnny Cash song. The Dark Sign is an Undead’s link to the Dark Soul and, by extension, the Dark. It’s notable that the Dark Sign only shows up when a character starts going Hollow; on living humans, it’s nowhere to be seen. (Which really makes you wonder where all the NPCs you meet got their Humanity from, huh?) To a certain degree, this makes sense; Hollows are the default form of humans (and probably Lords and Witches, too). When a human dies, they literally lose their humanity; they make the transition from a living thing into an inanimate corpse. Unless, of course, they’re Undead; then, they’re in a kind of half-state, where the ability to regain and retain humanity is part of the more allegorical human experience.

I think the exact nature of the Dark Sign is, itself, a kind of microcosm for the Dark Soul itself. The way I see it, the crux of the issue comes down to two different narratives about where the Dark Soul came from.

Narrative One, let’s call it the Frampt side, states that the Dark Soul was popped out of the First Flame along with the three other Lord Souls, part of a balanced system where it acts as the necessary opposite of the Light Soul. In this version, the Dark Soul depends on the First Flame as much as the other Lord Souls, and the death of the First Flame is also the death of the Dark Soul. Relating to the Dark Sign, that makes the Sign a direct representation of the Dark Soul being consumed by the First Flame, with the ring of fire constantly burning inward.

This is an odd way to see things, because it implies that the Dark Soul is already in the First Flame in some way. However, it is worth considering that Undead always return to a Bonfire, an extension of the First Flame, on their death; something inside them draws them to that fire. The Homeward spell even describes the homeland of the Undead as the Bonfire itself, implying that they come from the Flame in some way.

The opposing theory, the Kaathe side of things, has the Dark as not just the opposite of the Light Soul, but the entire First Flame itself. The Dark always existed, probably even before the First Flame, and was the original state that everything was born in before the discovery of the Flame. (All of this, of course, underneath the grayness of the Dragons.) It’s that old ‘In the beginning there was darkness, and the darkness never forgot’ bit. So the Dark Soul was created by the Dark so it could have an agent against the Flame, or at the very least some kind of balance.

This also completely shifts the narrative of the Lord Souls when you think about it. The Frampt story has two sets of two Lord Souls; Light and Dark, Life and Death. They’re meant to balance each other out on a four point axis kind of deal. The Kaathe story, however, makes it so that there are three Lord Souls and the one Dark Soul. That arranges the Lord Souls into a trinity, but of what? My gut instinct says cycle of life; Life, Death, and Rebirth (Light). Opposite of that is the big ol’ existentialist void as represented by The Dark.

I guess in this instance that makes the Dark Sign the opposite of its Frampt version; it’s not the Flame consuming the Dark Soul, but the other way around. The Dark is growing out from the Undead, getting bigger and bigger while it hungers for more. Or maybe Undead are even like reverse Bonfires; they are all portals to the Dark, and the ring of fire was placed their by the Lords to contain them, maybe even shackle them to the First Flame.

This also raises an important question about how the Lords and humans first came into contact with each other. If all the Lord Souls were distributed at once, then humans were with Lords at the beginning, establishing an immediate hierarchy. But if the Furtive Pygmy didn’t find the Dark Soul until well after the Lord Souls were given, then that means that humans just kind of started appearing during the Age of Ancients. I guess it doesn’t make much difference; Gwyn perceived humans as a threat one way or another, it’s just a question of sooner or later.

Also, I guess I should talk about the Furtive Pygmy. I’d like to give the guy his own segment, I really would, but there is less than nothing to go on. All we’ve got is his name; Furtive, which means sly, secret, or stealthy with connotations of guilt, and Pygmy, which means small. So, our guy was a little man who was trying to avoid being noticed. That already is being generous with the naming conventions, but one makes do with the sources at hand.

I think the Furtive Pygmy was at the bottom of the primitive Lord hierarchy, before they were even Lords; the literal runt of the litter. Without intelligence, they lived like animals, and the Pygmy would have been easy to dominate because of his deformity. So he kept to the shadows, tried not to step on anything’s toes. He got the Dark Soul as a ‘the last shall be first’ deal from either the Flame or the Dark, if you want to get that poetic. And from there, he presumably boinked some Lord (Lady?) or Witch and fathered more tiny mutant Lords like himself and on and on until there were enough of them to call them their own race.

The way Kaathe tells it, this was all part of the grand master plan. The Pygmy would make humans, then give them fragments of the Dark Soul, knowing that the Dark Soul would eventually regenerate within himself. In a way, it’s kind of what the Witch was trying to do with the Life Soul in Izalith; using the Lord Soul to bring about a new age. But where the Witch came at that problem head on, the Pygmy got closer by going the round about way. Strength in numbers instead of one big bang.

Hell, I think the Pygmy might have done a better job at creating life out of his Lord Soul than the Witch did. Humanity as fragments of the Dark Soul is actively alive. The description for Humanity itself calls it a ‘sprite’; ‘sprite’ is another word for fairy, and is actually the Middle English version of ‘spirit’. Individual Firekeepers’ souls detail how, just underneath the skin, are ‘swarms of Humanity that writhe and squirm’, and a generic Firekeeper’s soul describes Humanity as ‘gnawing’. (Which raises the question of quantitative effects of Humanity. I mean, some of the regular NPCs have half a dozen Humanity. So how much before it starts becoming painful?)

And then of course there’s these guys; Humanity out in the wild, without a human to attach to. Manus goes so crazy that Humanity just starts walking around. The Pursuers spell straight up describes these things as Humanity given willpower. Honestly, these things fascinate me. They’re basically like giant cells or oozes in function. They float around, looking for more Humanity to feed off of. Just look at how they attack; they don’t have any kind of weapons, they just hover up against you and deal raw damage. After they’ve consumed enough, they reach a point of critical mass and reproduce by fission. Hence, big ones and little ones. You could even make the case that the white aura is a kind of membrane made up of pure soul energy. The eyes are probably just an artistic decision to make it clear that the wraithes are living things.

Dark magic in general is pretty strange, but not anymore so than Death Magic or True Pyromancy or any other subset of magic in the game. (I dunno’. I’ll get into Souls’ magic in its own time.) The thing that makes Dark magic's special attribute is that it deals physical damage as well as magic damage. (Keep that Crest shield ready, kids.) I’ve gotta’ wonder if that’s because the Dark magic we find in Oolacile is technically Abyssal magic instead of pure Dark magic. The allegory in Dark Fog says that the physical damage stems from man’s inhumanity to man, but in other spells the descriptions seem to imply that Humanity itself is a corporeal, heavy energy. Humanity, and by extension, the Dark, is physically the densest and most material of the Lord Souls.

That’s certainly supported by the freakshow around Oolacile. Even before that, the Darkmoon Knightess in Anor Londo is starting to get affected by all the Humanity inside her to the point that she has to paper-bag that shit with the Brass Armor. But Humanity definitely affects the physical body after a certain point. Going by the clothing and combat abilities, I think it’s safe to say that most of the bloatheads in Oolacile were just everyday folks. When Manus went ape, it was so overwhelming as to have their inherent Humanity turn them into monsters. ‘Course, there’s also the possibility that by that point, the entirety of Oolacile society was using Dark magic straight from Manus, so they were all susceptible to the Abyss. Whatever the case, they were all biologically mutated by Manus’ own transformation. Their bodily strength and constitution were boosted while they turned feral. Even the bloathead sorcerers are abnormally tall.

Not like Oolacile’s the only place that got screwed up by mucking about with the Dark, though. The Four Kings are another one of those subjects that I wish that I had more to talk about with, but I’m coming up pretty blank. I think it says something positive that Gwyn was willing to entrust half of his soul to four humans. In the long run, perfect opportunity for Kaathe. Corrupt the Kings and you basically have control over Gwyn’s soul. Their knights followed soon after as the most badass looking group of Darkwraiths in Lordran, and the rest is history. Hard to say how long this was after Oolacile, but I think it’s safe to say that the two are definitely inter-connected.

The most interesting feature about the Four Kings’ design is that giant vortex in the middle of their chest. It corresponds almost exactly to the Dark Sign on Undead. Except, y’know, worse. That alone implies that the Undead Curse was already in swing by the time Gwyn want off to the Kiln of the First Flame. Or, then again, maybe that was added on by Kaathe later. When an Undead uses Humanity, it restores their health, it empowers them. Maybe the Dark Sign really is just a mouth that’s constantly hungering for Humanity while the body is Hollowed. It’s the body yearning to return to a state of personhood. The Kings have that kind of ironic deformity built around their gluttony for Humanity, the same way as the Gaping Dragon and its mouth. Hell, maybe the Four Kings are just what happens when the Dark Sign isn’t contained. New Londo fell because of that kind of excess; the Kings and their knights started feeding off of other humans.

We’ve gotta’ talk about the Darkwraiths. Soldiers of the Abyss, or at least travelers. Kaathe gives you some real fancy armor for joining up with him. The skeleton armor is most likely an aesthetic choice, but I was always a little more literal with it. If the bloatheads are cancerous, then the Darkwraiths are anorexic. The same way a Hollow is withered, the New Londo Darkwraiths are starving away from a lack of Humanity. Again, just me being literal with the armor, though. Far, far more likely that it’s the armor of New Londo, or at least after the Four Kings were corrupted. Kaathe gives it to you, but I never noticed any of the other canon Darkwraiths like Kirk or Lautrec using it. The real item for the Darkwraiths is the Dark Hand.

Your garden variety Darkwraiths are phantoms, leftovers from Demon’s Souls. The focus of the entire Darkwraith covenant is gathering Humanity for yourself. Lot of different people with different reasons to want Humanity in Lordran. These Darkwraiths don’t necessarily have to have anything to do with the covenant, it’s just about their motivation and tactics. But how does the Dark play into it? Phantoms usually invade worlds other than their own, but there are canon phantoms like Jeremiah and Mildred who come to attack you and who appear to be more like legitimate ghosts. What that tells me about the relationship between Darkwraiths and the Dark is a kind of clue to the cosmological structure of Dark Souls.

There are other worlds, that’s a given. All the different realities of Dark Souls with all the different Chosen Undead and different possibilities are coterminous; they exist on the same plane of reality, but are still somehow separate from one another. That’s where the Dark comes in; the Dark is the void between worlds, the gap that separates different realities from one another. It might even be that the intrusion of the Dark and growth into the Abyss is responsible for Lordran’s time shenanigans. Because it is the gap between worlds, that means that the Dark is also constantly coterminous with any given world. The souls of those who became Darkwraiths and died or who were consumed by their hunger go into this omnipresent Darkness and re-emerge whenever they want to, which can serve as good an explanation as any for canon Darkwraiths who don’t already have a story. (It’s notable that the Gravelord Servants also use the Dark, but I feel like that’s more of a Nito thing, so I’ll save it for later.)

Furthermore, if the Dark is the most physical of all the aspects in Dark Souls, and it is universally present, then you might even go so far as to say that the Dark is the physical nature of the universe itself. In that case, the Dark might be getting into speculative physics territory, literally Dark Matter. But I don’t know tosh about all that to get specific, so I’ll stick to what I know.

What’s this all add up to, ultimately? Not gonna’ lie, some really complicated shit that I could probably go on for hours about, because when you talk about the Dark, you talk about Humanity, and Humanity is three different things all at once:

The actual object and statistic within the universe, Humanity.

The qualities of each individuals human condition that make them people.

The entirety of the human species.

And you could go for hours combining the contexts of these different terms and how they relate to the Dark. When you’ve purchased all the spells from Big Hat Logan, for example, he no longer has anyone to teach, no one to connect to, or he may even think that you’re smarter than him. Whatever it is, it drives him to become a Hollow. He loses his Humanity along with his humanity. When the Darkwraiths and Four Kings began to feed on their own people for Humanity, they gave themselves over to the Abyss and cursed the whole city of New Londo, a former bastion of humanity, making their own loss of Humanity and humanity a loss for humanity. And so on and so on.

And that’s all completely intentional. It makes you think about what humanity really is, what it’s supposed to be. More importantly, it makes it clear how valuable the traits of humanity really are. Humanity is selflessness and charity, having a purpose, leaving a legacy. All that shit I talked about with Manus. And it starts out from a possessive, objective level and grows all the way out into what losing humanity means for our entire society and world.

But what does that make the Dark? The Dark is ultimately what humanity and Humanity comes from, and what it returns to. It is that sleep which encircles us at birth and into which we inevitably fall into at death; nonexistence, the void, an utter lack of awareness. Humanity, as a species, rose out of the Dark of animalistic non-awareness, and is headed towards the Dark in the desire for control and power; the rise and fall of civilization. On the cosmic level, the Dark is the base, crude matter which makes up our reality. It is the barrier that keeps us from one another. When we submit to the Dark, humanity is cruel to one another, driven to evil and madness.The Dark is the physical world to the Light’s ethereal ideals and philosophy.

When the Dark gets out of control, when it becomes excessive, it becomes the Abyss. And the Abyss is literally Nietzsche’s Abyss; it is all that is cruel and selfish and horrible about humanity, driven only by mindless greed and primal desire to expand by indulging in even more wickedness. It’s kind of telling that the Dark is both non-existence and selfishness, because it means that existence is defined just as much by our relationships and interactions with other people as much as self-awareness. And on an individual level, the Dark is all that in the microcosm of our own selves. Our bodies, our physical needs, our desires to be selfish. But the thing is, that’s not necessarily evil; it’s just a part of being human. The Dark, and it all it brings with it, non-existence, primality, selfishness, physicality, all of it, are part of the human experience. It ends and it begins, and in-between we are ultimately defined by the choices we make about how we live our lives and live with other people.

Fuck, this went on for a long time. I mean really, fuck. And it got way too deep there at the end. I might as well have just thrown up my hands with some freaking glitter and said, “It’s all an allegory! WHEEEE!” I appreciate it if you read this long. Sorry if I didn’t have anything earth-shattering or particularly cool or revealing to give you. To be honest, I actually thought I was going to have a hard time with this subject because I hadn’t thought about it all that much before I started writing. I guess this was kind of the first time I really gave the Dark any hard examination. Anyway, hope you weren’t too bored. Comments? Ideas? Suggestions on what you want to see me ramble about next?

tenth of November, two thousand nineteen

People’s perspective about depression is very dynamic. Their view is like a scale wherein you can gauge where you belong to. Depression is and will never be about exaggerating or overacting about almost anything in general. It is this emptiness inside you, a void within your chest that settles there in what seems like forever and it is this very void that would later on consume your entirety, in every minute, every hour in every day. There are moments when you feel like you’re doing well in your daily life but those come as quickly as they go, moments of happiness is fleeting. The mind would get so confused and so worked up every single time that you begin to question even the smallest thing in your life until it grows, and you eventually end up questioning your own existence, whether you deserve to be even breathing or not. It feels like the days are never ending, the same cycle, the same routine over and over again until it eats you up and later on you become passive. Passive to everything in life, about how the sun rises, how fantastic it feels to have the cool breeze blown upon your face, the joy when a close friend greets you fades away. Passive and yet critical at the same time. Critical to almost everything, the way you appear, your aura, how you approach a situation, your very own thoughts, even your own friends and family. You question whether or not you deserve to be living with those people but you never want them to know what you feel, no. Instead you put up this very high wall that seemed impossible to be broken down, you plaster on the biggest smile you could do, laugh the loudest in the group just to mask the hole you have in your chest away.

As the day ends and when you’re left alone to your own accord, that’s when the true you appears. The one you so carefully hid from the world, the one you never wanted to be hurt in the first place, the one who wears a mask everyday just to feel genuine happiness inside of him who also thought more about the others than himself. He who struggles to wake up every single day just to wear another mask to present himself to the world as an exultant person, he who hid his true personality from the critics of the world. Living with it is difficult that it is a challenge every single day that it gets to the point that it’s entirely not about living anymore, it became solely about surviving. Surviving the daily life, putting on a mask, socializing, getting yourself in check every time, carefully tucking your emotions within just to not break in front of the crowd.

It feels like you are so far down the rabbit hole that you cannot get out of it, you are stuck in a dark room with four corners and yet even when you know it has four corners, you cannot see those corners because of the darkness. This very darkness ate you away and has locked you up in that room where, from time to time, false hope presents itself through a ray of light. You get so used into being in that room that you became comfortable. You embraced all the darkness had to offer for it has blinded you so much you fail to see the actual beacon of hope.

People who suffered and are still suffering with depression are no cowards. They neither exaggerate nor overact. Those lovely souls who had surrendered in their own war are no cowards for taking the “easy way out”. Nothing is ever easy when you are depressed. Every day, everything feels like it is closing in and slowly choking you. Those beautiful souls who left early are misunderstood by the lot, those souls only wanted to be heard, they wanted to find people who would genuinely understand, they needed someone to guide them and never leave their side. They are not cowards just because they surrendered in their battle, they fought long and hard that it became too much for them that they had to rest.

Life will never be easy but it gets better with the right crowd alongside with you. But don’t worry if you haven’t found the right crowd just yet, you soon will. There’s so much more to life that you are missing, always know that there are people who can understand you, and those very people would gladly fight your war with you. Not everyone will always see eye to eye with us but let those people be. Instead, focus on yourself. Let yourself live and experience the beauty of life. Discover who you really are, find where your heart belongs, do the things that makes you genuinely happy. Learn to let go of the burden that you carry upon your shoulders, it’s time to pamper yourself, let yourself experience the things you really wanted to try before. Take a trip, go on an adventure. Discover yourself and love yourself. You go home to yourself, your own thoughts runs through your mind, let those thoughts be filled with positivity. Start small and know your tempo. Take baby steps, it’ll lead you farther than you’d ever imagine.

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME/ALIAS:

hi, i’m nikki, welcome to chili’s

AGE, TIMEZONE, PRONOUNS: 

nineteen, gmt+8, she/her

TRIGGERS: 

just self-harm, suicide, and vivid depictions of possession

ACTIVITY  & EXTRAS:

it’s our semester break right now, so i’m more or less free for the next few weeks. unfortunately, i have rehearsals interspersed at random points throughout the week and those usually take up my entire day, so there will be some moments when i won’t be able to go online and do replies, but i will get to check in every now and then! other than that, however, my schedule is pretty much empty.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED SKELETON:

Dyspistia, love of my life

CHARACTER NAME:

↠ cordelia [ kawr-DEEL-yə ]

Father always spoke of the wonder of the stars: how infinitesimal our mortal lives appear once placed on the same pedestal as these untouchable constellations — indestructible in their prime, beautiful even in their ruin. In their glory, they stood rivaled only by the sheen of the Moon — an enchantress by her own right, even when the Night seemed a void, capable of consuming all.

Father always spoke of the planets, and how each bore its own Moon; sometimes, a single planet was bestowed with the gift of a dozen moons ( maybe less, maybe less, maybe less — but always enough to drown even the darkest skies with a warmth, or perhaps a cool breeze never imposing itself upon the skin to induce discomfort ). When innocence was all but unfamiliar to you, he reminded you why you were named after the Moon — or, rather, a moon: for so long as you stood in the sky, even as you passed out of sight and Time, you would be immortalized by the glory of your existence, however short or extensive that phase may be. Doomed to orbit an unnamed Fate, you would remain uncontested, so long as eternity permitted it. 

Father always spoke of the vulnerability of mortals: how the threat of our demise constantly hung by a thread ( he was more than correct with his chosen metaphor, you realized of late ). Although never granted the gift of precognition — of the supernatural variety, it’s safe to say — Father was naught if not a wise man: the soul of an aged preacher clinging to the youth of his body, as did the crow’s feet to the corners of his eyes. Deep in his bones dwelt a certain kind of knowledge — leastways, a special kind of inkling you now so prefer to call — of things you suspect no other could’ve foreseen. He meditated on such things with ease. Perhaps it is a curse that comes naturally to the people of your sort — of Father’s sort: try as you might to deny it, the intelligent and the judicious will always be beasts of burden to the things they know. Such are the implications of this world and the worlds that precede it: that even in the presence of triumph, disaster lies patiently in wait. Perhaps these very perceptions tormented Father then. Perhaps these very perceptions torment you now. Perhaps this is the reason why the pair of you could never find happiness that lasted for more than a few fleeting moments.

Father always spoke of the uncertainty of your Fate, and how misaligned fortune was when it came to your predicament. His aforementioned acumen rendered him aware of what life would be for those who stood in your very position: heroes — personifications only of tragedies divvied into sonnets or songs or plays that tomorrow’s generations may marvel at once their stories were put into writing by the scribes of old. Father knew that one day, the burden of the world will fall upon your shoulders ( he wasn’t wrong ); that war will befall your kind whether you like it or not, and in the midst of that hurricane, you will remain: incarcerated; robbed of a choice ( he certainly wasn’t wrong ). Still, against all dictates of his mind, the vocation of his heart remained intact: even when you were torn in two, your allegiance would stay safe in his keeping. Father called you Cordelia — the name wrung through the vestibules of his home ( you could never call it your home, not without the slightest hesitation ) — christened with the name borne by King Lear’s youngest, the only child to remain loyal to her father. Your own Father hoped you would follow such a Fate: that even in the midst of turmoil, your heart would always return to him. Unfortunately for the hopeful, life operates in such a way that makes fools out of them. It certainly made a fool out of him. Cordelia — a beautiful name cursed with an oath that will never be held fulfilled.

↠ marie [ ma-REE ] 

The Hall of the Greats is filled with the miserable. It’s a fair barter in the eyes of the gods, you recently concluded: a fleeting existence furnished with strife in exchange for a death succeeded by glory. What would be the makings of timeless tales if not the pervasive presence of tragedy? Artists and scientists, holy men and innovators, philosophers and politicians — names that, to this day, haunt every nook and cranny of this condemned world — are only ever so achingly different in all aspects, save two: the splendor by which their names are escorted; and the agony which has long attached itself as a steadfast companion to the lives of these individuals: the divine and the damned; the beautiful and the cursed. Such is the Fate of those who make martyrs of themselves — be it for faith in a nameless god, or for defense of discovery in the new and the scorned. No matter the trajectory of their lives, happiness was compromised so they may be remembered by us — temporal beings who will pass through this Earth unnoticed. Long may their names be sung, if only to fully reap the rewards for which they suffered. 

The Hall of the Greats would one day make room for you. Father did not strive to keep it a secret — not to you, not to the gods. He was fearless and perhaps even callous in his words: an eager herald of the phenomena you were yet to offer this world, made a firm believer with the mere sight of your infantine self, brilliance interspersed through twinkles nestled in the depths of your eyes. He yearned for moments when he would see you grow in numbers measured only by years ( one, two, three, innocence meets its end, four, five, six, you grow more suspicious of the world around you, seven, eight, thenceforth the ability to discern friend from foe dissipates, nine, ten, you are a child no longer, eleven, twelve, you don your armor with ease and slip into the pretense of heroism ). Father could not find his footing in this world long enough for him to see his wish fulfilled. If only he weren’t so tactless with words — words, which are ever so eager to betray their deliverer. If only he didn’t fall prey to the sway of emotions. If only, if only, too many if only’s haunt your past. If only you faced the challenge posed by the past from which you run with the same courage you carry to the battlefield, you would not be so far from salvation damaged.

The Hall of the Greats is a future you have yet to explore. Father paved that pathway for you long before you could even comprehend the beauty and the sorrow brought about by life. In lieu of stories of girls clothed in rags and ballgowns who made haste to slip unnoticed before the clock struck midnight, or tales of witches — both of the good variety and the bad variety — who cast spells and hexes upon those who felled them, Father told you the lives of those whose footsteps he intended you to follow. It was a painful cycle of constant reminders, day and night, from the light of the rising sun to the soft gleam of the waning moon, as though he doubted your ability to retain such things  — limitless, this ability seemed, to the eyes of many and to his as well, but he could not risk it, lest you faltered. Before the midnight clouds swallowed all that shone in the sky, he recounted the biography ( almost in its entirety, as you now fall victim to retrospection ) of she whose namesake you bear: Marie Curie, the physicist and chemist who also understood the burden of unending knowledge. You see yourself in her ( or, perhaps, Father had told you so just enough times for you to claim the belief as your own ) and no other mortal could possibly understand your plight. But while she battled sexist coworkers and the threat of radiation from which she would later suffer, you met monsters in combat. Sometimes, you wonder if your contribution would be sufficient to grant you passage to the Hall Father intended you to be a part of. Most of the time, however, you care too much about just getting the job done rather than thinking about what comes after.

↠ palmer [ PAH-mər ]

This, you could not rid yourselves of. On this front, Father had not a choice. The surname long brandished as a banner of pride, the mere utterance of which brought both admiration and envy to the hearts of nearby spectators seemed to sour as the years progressed. It was Father’s fault — the pristine white paper upon which vivid blank ink stains impresses these words on your infallible memory. Father who, in his might and wisdom, became a quick victim to the tempting snatches of emotional vulnerability. He of all people should’ve understood the preponderance of the mind over the heart, but even he acquiesced without so much of a decent fight. He tainted the glory of your family name — a name which could’ve alleviated the burden of the path assigned you by millimeters: mere millimeters could’ve made the most tremendous difference. But you could never bring yourself to despise Father for this, no. It was human nature — idiotic and unwise, but nature nonetheless; and you, in all those moments when curiosity hungered and was satiated, knew that each point in time that devastated history was perpetrated by man — man who succumbs so easily to carnal instincts. Oh, the misery of wisdom: this piece of information with which you rationalized Father’s actions forbade you even the slightest manifestation of anger. For how could fury prevail when knowledge had already given it a justification not to? 

AGE & GENDER:

22 ( b. January 20, 1996 ), cis female

b i r t h   c h a r t 

↠ sun, moon, and ascendant in capricorn

The Fates find enjoyment in their meticulous ways. Perhaps such is the curse of immortality: to seek pleasure in the details insignificant to the mortal eye. The trajectory upon which they set these accursed heroes is a specific path that does not stray, the most minuscule features borne in mind. It was not by chance that the literal thought of Cora was birthed by Athena on the 20th day of January, 1996, just as the harsh sun rose at 6:25 in the morning upon the dying land of our world. Ten years to the day succeeding the discovery of the moon after which she was christened, Cordelia was delivered to her Father’s doorstep, with the assistance of the West Wind. Her existence came upon the Earth as a reminder of the perpetual grand ushering of dawn. With her creation came the promise of a new age — whether it is better or worse than that which preceded remains a mystery, so long as the fate of the quest stands upon the edge of a knife. But just as her birth served as a forbearance of the genesis of this brand new age of demigods and heroes, it also stands as evidence of the person Cora has long forged herself to become. To have her birth fall on the very moment the planets aligned with Capricorn seemed almost fateful — poetic, even, dare I say. She is an apotheosis of her star sign, the very personification of those who fall under the Capricorn category. Pragmatic even in her fantasies and steadfast in her actions, Cora works towards her goals efficiently and effectively. Although not a stranger to haste, she leaves no stone unturned. All her ambitions remain within the scope of achievement — all other tasks beyond the breadth of realism are ignored. Such is Cora’s attitude to all things, even this quest. Although never granted the choice, she still pursues the success of this task because she genuinely believes that the betterment for all remains achievable. It’s a slim chance,  the odds of their victory, but the odds exist nonetheless. After all, a part of this task was placed upon her shoulders, and Cora is not one to turn away from such responsibilities, regardless of how mortifying the end may be — if she were even permitted to see the end of it ( and, by the gods, she knows how lamentable those odds stand ). If this quest were to claim her life ( could it claim something even greater, she wonders ), then it is a sacrifice she is willing to make — for the time being, that is.

FACECLAIM: 

Zendaya

Alisha Boe

Maisie Richardson-Sellers

BIOGRAPHY:

OVERTURE

Hellfire has long spilled onto this world. War after war, man against man, soldiers of old called out names our tongues could never utter in dying languages that would meet their end along with the promise of their victory, and such was their destiny for a time interminable. It was this perpetual and tedious cycle: of destruction following formation, ravaging all that had been created purely for the purpose of creation. With this, our Fate as humanity was sealed — and, in so many ways, cursed: that we would forever be victims of our own hatred and of the perversions of our hearts. Paper shields and wooden swords are handed us upon birth, and through our alliance with Age — Age, the eternal nemesis of Innocence, the former always prevailing over the latter — we forge those shields and swords into something stronger; and paper turns to metal, wood to steel. It’s a vicious desperation dwelling within corrupted hearts that drove humanity to such a point, and this desperation was not sown by man himself.

High above our world and so many others stand the gods — the beautiful and the damned in every way possible. Powerful as they were ( and powerful they are indeed, without an inkling of doubt ), they too cultivated misery that was known only to them and to their kind. After all, what is an immortal life if not a fruitless one? Boredom so easily seeps into the lives of the indestructible, and as boredom grows, so does impatience. Atop their unreachable thrones, they could no longer remain like this: lying in wait for excitement that was not to come unless actively pursued. Then man came — man, who is so easily corruptible by power and wealth and all objects immaterial in the grand scheme of things  — the perfect pawn for the immortal and the dispirited.

With the everlasting promise of glory and the constant threat of death dangled above man’s head, the gods toyed with the mortals: be it for love ( this could not be so, for the gods were incapable of love ), for chaos ( this bore a higher probability, because not unlike man, the gods too found solace in witnessing the conflict grow among those whom they did not know ), or purely for entertainment ( this was the real reason why god so often meddles in the affairs of man: celestial beings falling prey to the bitter decay of the splendor of immortality ). Every now and again they came upon earth to possess men whom they have long coveted, or to fool princes into indirectly waging war with former allies. But these were not without their consequences, or so the tale goes.

Time came when the gods, magnificent as they were, needed man, and not merely to bring color to their uneventful lives. They then did not act simply out of spite or envy or even false declarations of love, but out of necessity: for there existed battles that the gods could not fight all on their own, not while the risk of their own annihilation hung but millimeters away from their faces. Cruel strikes their hand and they struck hard, convincing man to charge onto battlefields in their name, bearing only a shield of fear and a sword of mortality. But man prevailed over adversary, weak as he may appear. Indeed, the occasional guidance of the gods came in handy, but it was his own willpower created from woodwork which granted him victory and, after a longer period of time, glory in a life long-winded. 

From the lives of these men — both tragic and marvelous in ways unimaginable  — tales of length and songs of veneration were penned, forever to be revered by all who claim their place in history. Plays were performed in their honor and sonnets were written for their praise. Ahead lies a tale unfinished, for the Fates have not yet revealed their purpose for this story or what conclusion sprawls in wait once beginning turns to end. Whether Cordelia Palmer — a tragedy by her own right — follows the path that other heroes have trod remains a mystery. The gods have already meddled in this narrative, and what follows is dictated entirely by she: a mere mortal with the mind of a god, consumed by the blessing she has long called a curse.

ACT I

SCENE I: LOVE IS A CORRUPTER

It begins as all great plays do: with the ushering of melodic tones devoid of lyrics played on ivory keys painted to look older than they actually are and the popping of bottles labelled with names and places pronounceable only by a select few. Traditions were upheld as a painful reminder: that while the bearers of wealth may pass into a land where no other mortal may traverse so long as he remains a corporal being ( oh, the folly of mortals, who spoke so greatly of what little they know ), wealth and prominence do not have expiration dates, and are just as easily handed down from one generation to the next as old relics. Dressed to the nines came the guests, among whom were the elderly man and woman you would later call Papa and Nana, but this was not for another two scenes. With the aid of Time, you will recall the part they have played in full later on. Currently, however, you come acquainted to an epoch when you were barely a ghost of a thought — a mere idea of an idea, not yet properly conceived.

[ REDACTED ] — you know his face, but the weight of his name blurs into the recesses of memory long repressed; you believe you called him Father — yes, indeed, this was Father’s part of the tale, and this part did not seem so bleak as the acts that followed it — stood among the crowd, clad in his best suit and shoes shined so brightly it would put the constellations above to shame. He was among those that laughed and converged in the hall — an elite group of scientists, passing on the gift of intelligence and an interest in the field from one generation to another as they did their opulence. On their own, away from the consuming prowess of society and all those who partook in its vices, they seemed like gods too: powerful, magnificent, unfathomable.

You would call it silly and all too unwise, had you been there. The event was naught but a callous reminder that the eminent would remain the eminent ( this was not so, you would experience firsthand in your youth ), nothing more than an obnoxious display of ephemeral power quick to betray its bearer. It appears, however, that you would not have been alone in your viewpoint, as Father cultivated the same belief in secrecy. Outwardly, however, he betrayed not even the slightest indication of such a thought. Yet you could see unconscious manifestations of it in the stiffness of his shoulders and the warmth of his palms: he did not want to engage in obsolete traditions such as this. Long had Father endured the jarring scrutiny of individuals who believed themselves to be greater than even the divine, finding his place among them with the utmost discomfort as early as the meager age of eleven.

Year after year, however, he persisted, if only to please his parents — a feat Father was so eager to complete, no matter the cost at which it came. The absence of depths in the conversations these individuals — who, albeit their intellect, could only talk of the shallow and the temporary — instigated, slowly extinguished the light which dwelt in Father’s eyes and the flame which found solace in his mind. Time came when he had his own accomplishments to boast, and with it came a title affixed to his name. He hoped he would find belongingness following this — a tragic lapse of judgment.

Did you hear? Our son graduated summa cum laude. And he barely even tried! ( this was a lie, and Father knew it: the only thing Father was capable of doing was trying, and he was fortunate enough to receive the payoff for which he had long worked ). There’s talk they might recruit him over at NASA. Can you even believe? When it rains, it surely pours.

And then they laugh that shrill laugh: Papa and Nana laugh with arrogance; their colleagues laugh with strain. Father realizes they were all of them caught in a ploy to constantly one-up the other, and the achievements he has long endeavored to attain were nothing more than a pedestal upon which your grandparents can exalt themselves. With the dawning of the painful realization of the truth ( see? You are not alone in your battle against your mind. Father struggled with it too; and unfortunately, he lost. But that end may not necessarily befall you, if you arrive in time to salvage what little you can ), Father slips away swiftly, dodging Papa’s firm grasp on his shoulder by just millimeters and Nana’s keen eye, clouded still with false pride. 

Away Father shrinks into the crowd, until wandering feet find familiar ground upon the wooden floorboards of the bar tucked conveniently into the corner of the room. Then he sees her — you longed to call her Mother, but your heart could not do so, even when the mind commanded it to yield — and all is changed.

SCENE II: LOVE IS A CRUEL MASTER

They talk — that’s all they do, really. Whisking themselves away from the deafening yet ultimately vacuous conversations, away from the glaring lights of the function hall, and eventually towards the open night, the crisp cool air gnawing at their occasional bare parts of flesh, they found solace in one another — Father, most especially. This stranger, enigmatic as she was in her ways, provided him with a sense of security — whether this security was genuine or merely a shadow of a truthful one, you still cannot properly determine ( there are moments when you realize that it was the former; but always, always logic dictates it to be the latter ).

There was beauty to her litheness, dangerous grace to the coldness of her palms, but it was not her grace or beauty foremost that Father saw in her. It was the twinkling of knowledge hidden deep beneath piercing grey eyes that caught his attention, an image reflected in his own eyes, long ignored in favor of futile pursuits. Indeed, he was now worthy of reverence in his field — another Palmer to claim the title of doctor: when his parents had passed, he would raise the family banner on his own: emblem of pride in one hand, astrophysical acclaim in the other.  But misery was much too high a price for even a man such as he ( see? You are not alone in your combat against the self. Father wrestled with these demons too; unfortunately, he lost yet again ). Yet as the conversations with this cryptic woman persists, he feels liberated from the cage he has since trapped himself with. The words flow melodically, one abstract concept followed by another, challenging the other but never arguing beyond insolence. 

Finally, an exchange of names arises, and so comes scurrying worry ( and accompanies it is panic — do not forget about Worry’s favorite friend, lest you intend to risk devastation ). She introduces herself by her first name — the same name with which you address her now — but leaves a surname understandable only through mumbles and a whisper under the breath. Father peruses through her life with questions disguised by absentminded curiosity, but a mortal could never outsmart the goddess of wisdom herself — the very personification of the trait he has long admired but could not fully possess. I’m not from around here, she simply says. It is told with the intonation of rehearsed lines: said more than once in situations not unlike this. Athena is quick and cruel to reveal so little, leaving only but the tiniest breadcrumbs in her wake.

When the conversations inside the hall faded into an almost sacramental silence, the sound of footsteps increased in volume, and with that came the source of the abrupt noise which destroyed any notion of privacy. The first few signs of departure came in trickles through the front gates, the occasional guest disrupting the still air with a high-pitched goodbye. Trickles soon became a full-fledged storm, and the crowds from which they earlier escaped arrived to haunt them.

A timorous heart — once faced with urgency — acts in haste and reaps so little reward. 

Can I see you again? The stranger — Athena, Father will call her later, once the entirety of their conversation sinks into consciousness — starts to head in a direction away from him. She does not answer. Can I see you again? This time, Father allows just enough despair to seep into his voice to assure a halt from the stranger. There is hesitancy in her movement but conviction in her eyes as she gives a small nod, leaning into his ear to whisper a place —  a place unlike that hall, where profound conversations may begin and never cease. 

For once in his immaterial life, Father finds meaning — not the false kind with which he has long tricked himself into swallowing whole. The misery subsides and makes room for but the faintest joy — quick to form but equally quick to dissipate. 

SCENE III: LOVE CREATES CORPSES OF ALL THOSE IT CLAIMS AS VICTIMS

The furtive curtain of the night provided the perfect cover for trysts. When the sun had sunk perfectly beneath the horizon that cut through the decaying lands of our world and the sky deepened into obsidian, they met in a cobblestone park, devoid almost in its entirety of people, save the occasional homeless man or the lonely park ranger who spent more nights at this desolate park than he did in his own bed. The clock struck nine and Father knew it was time: time to slip into the guise of nothingness. Under the dimly lit streets and the unforgiving glare of the constellations, he was a nobody ( how ironic that he should slip into this persona so easily and at a premature time. Was he not aware that such masks are not so easily shed, especially when worn with comfort? ).  

Relationships — or, rather, what closely resembled relationships — such as this could not be paraded around with pride. After all, Father hardly knew anything of this woman, splendid as she was in mind and heart. More than that, however, he was aware of the disapproval that would etch itself onto his parents’ faces had they discovered their relationship. To the mortal eye, the gods are but those among us. Although she was Athena of Mount Olympus once all pretenses were set aside, she was merely another human being devoid of a surname of prominence. Father’s heart became heavy under the suffocating weight of secrecy, but it was not to be matched by the heaviness that preceded or succeeded the relationship. 

The nights that followed the first were similar by nature: dominated only by talk of the known, the unknown, and all that came between. It seemed that although the night aged and the days progressed, they had not exhausted what limited topics the human mind can typically entertain. The conversations slowly incorporated jokes understandable only to the pair, and comfort was surely and steadily peppered into their words, present in the tiniest of smiles and the softest of touches. Father had not known love — genuine love where he longed to love back, not simply to impress — but he was certain that this was it.

Oh, dear Father, did we not tell you that the gods cannot love?

It seemed out of character for Father to fall prey so easily to emotions, but he had long been denied them; it only felt right for him to crave that human feeling of vulnerability in the most desperate moments. Had his wisdom prevailed over carnal instinct, perhaps you all would’ve been spared ( you vowed that no such mistake shall exist in your tale ). 

Twenty-nine days to the day, the truth exposes itself in words that seem all but untangled in Father’s eyes. At first, he thinks it’s a joke — another ingenious quip from the woman he had fallen in love with. Of course, you’re a goddess! You’re...you’re you! he stammers through the occasional laugh in an attempt to deny the knots forming in his stomach. But as Athena’s explanation accumulates in length, reason dictates that what she spoke was indeed the truth, and the night no longer made room for laughs or efforts of denial.

As the sky darkened and the Moon rose to its throne alongside the stars, Father made his way to the cobblestone park, mentally preparing for the worst, secretly hoping for the best. What greeted him was nothing — and nothing was the most cruel sight he could possibly witness. 

With that came the end of all things for Father: the end of his promising career, the end of love, the end of all significance of his ultimately fruitless life. But some endings can forge a path for beginnings as well, if only we were tenacious enough to search for such things. Father was not devoid of that opportunity, and it lay there on his very doorstep, but like so many, he failed to realize the presence of a blessing when it arrived before his very eyes. 

Just a mere four days following Athena’s departure, another being similar to her nature was delivered to the forefront of the house Father had long called his own. In a golden cradle inscribed with Greek symbols for protection lay the infantine Cordelia, eager to play with the phenomena that dwelt deep beneath the alcoves of the unseen world — the world within our own, visible only to those wise enough to seek it. 

You could not say Father tried, for he did. With his most earnest efforts, he struggled to love you, christened you with a name that would assure glory, furnished you with the tools with which your wisdom would grow — but he could not love you, not truly. Try as he might — and try he did, you know it — he cannot give what he does not have. This lesson you learned with a maturing mind and a dying heart.

ACT II

SCENE I: THE GODS ARE ONLY AS DIVINE AS WE

For the price of the brilliance of your mind came the asphyxiation of your soul. The absence of love and parental guidance during the days of what would’ve been your youth sealed the Fate with which you are now burdened. Father wanted to provide you with all that a child needed — with all that a child could not have lived without ( until you came along, and became living proof that survival did not necessarily equate living, because although you escaped the unyielding grasp of scarcity, you did not escape unscathed ) — but just after two years of upholding the pretense of completeness, he eventually succumbed to the wounds from the past — the same wounds that would induce his desire for an untimely death.

Through the eyes of robbed innocence, you witnessed the volatility of humans: how easily they gave in to the emotions that taunted them with gusto. Young as you were, you wore the crown of wisdom and prudence with pride, accumulating lessons of the academe as quickly and comfortably as you did the lessons of life. With your left hand you danced among the stars — the residue of the Palmer legacy — discovering a love for the precise and scientific along the way; with your right hand you played with the prospect of the unknown: toying effortlessly with the ideas of liberation, war, death, and what came after — the very things that would terrify even an adult mind. Your mind searched for locked doors — undiscovered thoughts and furtive concepts laying in wait for the right person to unearth them — the key to which was your knowledge. You, devoid of naivety and joy, would feel the gift of wisdom before you would feel its painful sting.

As you grew in numbers measured only by years, the hallways of Father’s decaying home ( it felt utterly dirty, almost sinful even, to call it your home. This house — life absent from the creases of the wallpaper and love lacking from the nook and cranny of every room — was not a home; merely a structure built out of necessity, nothing more ), they trembled at the sight of you. Your silence was tumultuous, for with it came the perusing and keen gaze of your curiosity.

What of Father then? Well, Father searched for his soul in cracked bottles of foul smelling liquor and women who wore bright red lipstick and 4-inch heels. Always, the musk of other men and the stench of smoke clung eagerly to their skin. Sometimes, when they saw you wandering about, you recognized in their eyes the same innocence that was taken from you; and just as they felt your stare strip them down to the barest bone, they looked away. You never saw the same face more than once. In the morn, when you woke to cook breakfast for both you and Father just before heading to school ( he never learned how to fend for himself, not in youth, and certainly not in adulthood ), the rooms were rank with the smell of alcohol. Then, all you could do was stop the bile from rising in your throat as you rode the bus, caving in to the desire to vomit as soon as your feet met firmer ground. But you accumulated years once more, then again, and again, and again, and Father’s stank did not seem so vile — only a customary piece of decor that would forever be hung upon the walls of the withering house.

Escape, however, was not out of reach, no matter how ephemeral it felt. It was always ingrained in your nature: to find comfort in the structured. Within the pristine white walls occasionally stained with intrepid graffiti bearing words which wrung true, you discovered that there were crevices in the world  — waning in number they were, but they endured nonetheless — where content could abound, and with it came the smallest traces of happiness. You found such a place at school, frightening as it was for those who feared learning as much as they feared knowledge itself. There, you found common ground with other individuals who were not so completely unlike yourself ( they were less miserable, yes, but at least they too appreciated wisdom as it came knocking down their front door ), and for once in your life, you were not so alone.

Then Poverty — the brutal master of the unprivileged — disillusioned you once more, and again came your descent into the recesses of your own mind. You learned to distrust not only other humans now, but life itself: how cruel it was in its unpredictability, to take happiness from a child he has already robbed once just as quickly as he gives it. Humans were fickle in their ways; Fate was fickle in his choices. You shed all pretenses of false youth with which you clothed yourself. You prepared for the worst, all while shunning the best. So arose the daughter of Athena: from the floods of tragedy she awakens, misery and prudence abounding all around her.

SCENE II: THE GODS ARE DESPERATE FOOLS

Tragedy allowed you to unearth yourself, whilst it only permitted Father into further deterioration and self-deprecation. In matter of a decade, the wealth granted him by his parents just prior to his decision to live alone — along with the money he himself had gathered in his short lived days of glory — consumed itself into nothingness. You made the mistake of looking to him for a solution ( a mistake you will make no longer ), instead of looking to yourself ( a solution you will use for the remainder of your days ). Through gritted teeth and the suppression of guilt, you used the brilliance of your mind to navigate your way through society, living paycheck to paycheck ( of course, we use this liberally only in a metaphorical sense ).

Father, it seems, remained ignorant to all that went on around him. You knew why this was so. Long before tragedy struck, you unearthed why this was so, and with such precision, your hypothesis turned into fact: after Athena abandoned him to cruel solitude, he created a world where only he and the hopeless dwell. It is a world of desperation and deceitful joy, far from our own. Through this world, he built a convincing delusion: that everything was alright ( indeed, the apple does not fall too far from the tree ). It was not until he scraped the bottom of his wallet only to find lint and crumpled paper did he awaken, albeit only momentarily.

When all seems bleak, we do the inexplicable — things which do not necessarily make sense to those who witness it; things which do not make sense even to ourselves. Despair drives man to ends he never would’ve gone; and only the gods know what trenchant despair drove Father to his parents’ doorstep.

You had never learned of their existence, and neither did they yours ( up until that pivotal moment, you were but an unfulfilled wish, and they were but ghosts of a time uncharted ). But the prodigal son must find his way back, one way or another, be it by his will or not — such is his Fate, no matter the tale. You marveled at the transparency of emotions written on their face: how easily sorrow turned to joy, joy turned to anger, anger to shock, shock to disdain, disdain to disappointment. You, young as you are, uncovered the importance of masking emotions — this way and this way alone secured you the upper hand. As your precocious gaze fell upon their faces, you wondered how individuals of their tenure would be so bereft of such knowledge; how quickly they succumbed to the lustrous temptation of emotion.

The silence that fell upon them was deafening; and amidst that silence, you heard four hearts beat in unison: one, two, three — a fleeting moment passes into history and you are ushered inside a house which rivaled the grandeur of the building that saw your youth fade into premature adulthood — but where Father’s home sunk along with Time, his parents’ remained afloat above years collected. A butler was eager to take your backpack heavy with novels ( it felt strange, to have been waited on all of a sudden, when all your life you had depended on no one but yourself ); he escorts you to a room away from Father and his parents. The woman — Nana, you would grow accustomed to calling her — turned to you before you went your separate ways: We’re so sorry sweetie, but we’ll see you later. The adults just need to have a little chat ( how ludicrous must one’s mind be to fail to recognize an adult trapped in the corporal existence of a child? Had the suspicion in her eyes not been a dead giveaway? ).

What went on in the room adjacent to where you stayed remains a mystery, although your juvenile mind was quick to speculate ( they placed a toy before you, mistaking you for a simpleminded child, entertained by the silliest wonders, as though a mere toy would put a halt to your ever wandering thoughts  — evidently, it was not ). The walls reveled in their thickness and you failed to hear even the faintest whisper. You do not know how long you spent inside that room, your separation from books seemingly increasing the loneliness, but they entered just as soon as you felt anxiety eating away at your fingertips.

Formalities were the foremost priority in their eyes, so it appeared. Introductions seemed the least of your concerns, but that did not prevent them from carrying on nonetheless. Nana went first, then Papa; but they urged you to call them the monikers with which you refer to them as now. They had told you their first names and you chose to forget, because you knew they would be no more than a few lines in the lengthy narrative you were creating, harsh as the thought may be. You noticed that Father had not followed suit, and it was only then that his absence made itself known to you.

Then you see him, far behind the door left ajar. Half of his face was naught but a silhouette, a poetic manifestation of his spiritual separation from our world. There was despair in his eyes, but also fear; and as his gaze locked with yours, you saw the softest sheen of hope: a passing thought it was, but it grew in prominence as you prolonged the shared stare. Beneath the liquor-stained gaze of a drunk lay the hollow shell of the man Father used to be; and in that single, unforgettable moment, you see the glory he once held within his very palm. 

Father fades from view as Papa closes the door, and all connections with him are severed. Then comes the question that will decide the path upon which you shall tread: Will you stay with us? [ REDACTED ] cannot come with you, but we’ll take care of you. 

Eager eyes fall upon you. With you, they would project the dreams unfinished by their son, but even if you would refuse doing so, Papa and Nana would shield you with their wings nonetheless, for they feel as though they failed the first time they attempted to raise a child, but this time they will not. Sometimes all people coveted was a second chance — and you, daughter of wisdom, are now given the burden of choice of whom you would give it to: to your grandparents — intent on redeeming themselves — or to Father — a man who would not survive the cold bite of sheer loneliness?

The decision is set in stone when you look outside the window of the second story of the building. Father walks away, stumbling upon stone and sand, doomed to return to a dwelling devoid of vigor and of you. It’s for the best ( this is the first time you justify your actions in order to deny any notions of immorality; from thence, this becomes a habit that eats away at both your conscience and your humanity ). Now all Father has to do is look after himself. He is free of the burdens he saddled in my name. He is free of me ( but Father needed you more than you ever needed him — you know this. You abandoned him at his weakest. Indeed, humans are fickle in their ways — and you are not exempt from this ).

SCENE III: THE GODS CLAMOR FOR THE DAYS OF SPLENDOR LONG EXTINCT

Days come and go peacefully but the doubt in your heart will not leave you be. Papa and Nana dote on you endlessly, much to your disdain. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined living in a world where opulence abound; amidst the colossal and destitute vestibules of their home ( it becomes another place you fail to call home: because exuberant as this edifice was, it was not without a feeling of desolation ) unfamiliarity took residence. You feel like a literal stranger in this home — a mere prowler granted the liberty of roaming to her liking only for an indefinite time, up until the rightful owners of the property come barging in and you are forced to take refuge in dark corners, in hopes that you would never be found. But this was not the case, and you were not so much a boarder who paid rent as you were an inhabitant.

Oh, the gods knew how much you wanted to belong — to find your place among people you so dearly wanted to call family ( the word was all too unfamiliar to you, and perhaps that’s where the fear stemmed ). Still, your mind was not your mind if its primal instinct was not to doubt the intentions of even the pure. Twisted your thoughts had become, and even the sweetness of the words of Papa and Nana seemed to rot your teeth with overcompensation. Then, your soul was asphyxiated by sheer absence; now it grows restless because of excessive presence.

You could not deny the call of intuition: how fiercely it cried that even your grandparents acted only out of selfish gain. Perhaps it was not wrong in its assumption, but perhaps you needn’t always seek to be right. Your inability to accept things at face value becomes the source of torment. To suspect a little was wise; but to suspect constantly was no longer wisdom — it was self-deterioration. 

Skepticism made little to no room for acceptance; and although you wanted to recognize the love Papa and Nana endeavored to make known to you, you could not — not so long as doubt inhabited every crevice of your heart. Days come and go peacefully — until they do not.

It was both a blessing and a curse to be right about nearly everything: that though the reward for the accuracy of your suspicion created a monstrous ego destructible by none other than yourself, it also meant that your assumption of constant tragedy was justified; it meant that misfortune tailed your every move, and the distrust planted in your heart had every reason to exist.

Your grandparents built a library for you in an attempt to destroy the walls of wariness you built around yourself. You never stepped foot in it for you feared you would find too much comfort in the place and begin to call the rest of the building home. As you saw it consumed in flames, the memory of your refusal set forth regret.

Akin to the winds of change, the Chimera came without any forewarning. Such a creature existed only in the novels you read, never to haunt you in your waking moments. Imagination could not have concocted a vision more terrifying than what lay ahead of you, just as you had arrived from school. It stood double, triple, quadruple your size, violent flames writhing from its unhinged jaw and a venomous snake in the place of a tail thrashing from behind. When you fought, you fought with words — with rapid quips and statements that silenced your opponent into dumbness. But this creature could not be stifled or hindered by words, disarming as they were when unexpected.

Still, you would not stand where you stand now if it were not for your craftiness. Suspicion had long kept you on your toes, and knowledge made an excellent substitute for swords and shields. While you had not met the Chimera head on ( to do so would’ve been folly: it would’ve devoured you either in flames or in an enclosed mouth ), you followed the tactic preset by Bellerophon during a forgotten time: with the equipment the basement provided, you created your own crude version of a led ball. When opportunity struck, down its throat you jammed it and history repeats itself, as is dictated by the Fates.

It’s this singular moment when all your worries are given appropriate justification. For once in your life, you are bereft of a logical explanation: circumstance has allowed you to feel lost and devoid of judgment ( and you are not even given ample time to repress and compartmentalize, as you have done time and time again ). In the midst of the struggle and strife, you forget to search for Papa and Nana: vulnerable to even a human attack. You find them in the corner of the bedroom curled into a tight embrace, the solidity of their grasp morphing two figures into one. You remember the fear that flooded their eyes, overflowing the rim of their irises. They were terrified and traumatized, but ultimately unscathed. 

Success was yours for the time being, but there were things that needed answers, and you had to look to the scorned and the abandoned for them. Thirteen months following your betrayal of him, your eyes fall upon a familiar sight.

Father had not changed, save the untrimmed beard which now clung to the gentle sag of his skin. His room held more empty bottles and stronger memories of disdain. The air flourished with the stench of recently lit cinders from cigarettes and the recognizable stank of loneliness. Father was dying, and you perpetrated his death with treason. 

Still, you looked to him for one final attempt of searching prudence in unlikely places. His face was wrought with both hope and agony as he laid his eyes upon you, the drunken gaze surprisingly coated with gentleness ( you did not know this then, but this would be the last time Father looks upon you with waking eyes ). But as your nature permitted only so little emotion to persist, you got right to business, offering no words of sympathy or apology — both long overdue. You ask of your past and he answers. You ask why the monsters had not come before and he explains ( the stench of liquor you had long detested turned out to be your saving grace; at the expense of your protection, Father sacrificed his life ). You inquire of what to do next and he provides a solution — the final moments of prudence from Doctor Palmer. He tells you of a Camp where safety abound — a Camp where you would finally find belongingness. You thank him for his cooperation and turn your back, unaware that he had more to say — more to confess, it is safe to use such a bold term. But you do not grant him that. He does not deserve that.

When you walked out of the front door of the place you could’ve called home, you leave only with a loaded gun ( which you did not know how to use, though you promised you would learn ) and three fundamental truths ( which you would forever live by ):

There would be no more words of or for Father. He is the emblem of the past you would much prefer to forget. As you do with all other repulsive memories and emotions, you will store all recollections of Father — be they good or bad — in a neatly wrapped box, sealed with the promise to never open such things.

Do not expect anything from Mother. In fact, it would be best if you destroyed the habit of calling her Mother. After all, you had long survived without the concrete presence of either parent, why would you need it now, after all you’ve endured? Mother Athena never could’ve been a mother, not with her stature. She may be your mentor when the day comes, but she is foremost a god, untouchable by even you.

Your distrust was never misplaced. Deep down, your intellect knew it was preparing you for the worst. With this covert tool you will find survival. Through this and only this can you find the willpower to go on. Sow the seeds of distrust and suspicions; water them with constant vigilance; and cultivate it with doubt of all ( even of self ).

Through hell and high water your feet walked with hardly any cessation, outsmarting one monster after the other. You had not the experience to fight, but your brilliance reigned supreme — this much you were certain. Finally, when the road became too weary to bear all on your own, by Athena’s guidance you crossed paths with a satyr who showed you the way to Camp Half-Blood. Long gone are the days of Cordelia Marie Palmer, child prodigy. Now come the days of Cora Palmer, daughter of Athena ( you were claimed the same night you arrived, much to your surprise ). Here now begins the true tale of heroic tragedy.

INTERMISSION

You are only twelve when you first taste the bitter sting of war. You had grown in strength from your first year at Camp ( the twelve months passed in its entirety and yet you do not leave; after all, you never truly had a home laying in wait for your return ). The detached persona remains intact, even with the presence of so many others who are not unlike yourself. Among your cabin, you were the most recluse, and that spoke volumes. Though no outward connections were ever created, an intrinsic admiration for your fellow campers was honed by instinct ( and perhaps a unique type of love, too, existed when you weren’t so eager to deny it ). To see them die by your side reminds you why you distrusted the Fates so much.

The gods demanded so much from children — indeed, even with the torment of circumstance, those who surrounded you and even you yourself were naught but children, forced to become soldiers in a war you did not instigate — and yet they repaid so little in your favor. Once the bloodshed stopped and the anguish slowly subsided, the gods returned to the security of their thrones, abandoning you all to face the consequences of their actions. It was a brutal play, but the gods were gods. They would not be gods if they did not care so little, you repeat to yourself, day after day, memorial after memorial — all so you may contain the anger which threatened to overflow as do tempestuous dams when filled to their brim.

ACT III

SCENE I: ALL YOU ARE GRANTED IS DIMINISHED CONTROL OF THE END

Father is dead and everything is worse now.

The threat of war dissipates almost in full and it leaves nothing but tender scars in its wake, waiting for the gentle kiss of healing. There you stood amidst them all — pitiful heroes who dictated the course of Fate — and you were among them. Your wisdom no longer went unrecognized. After all, your habitual tendency to slip into a subconscious need to correct the amiss and silence the idiotic could only yield one result, and the result was revealing to the entirety of Camp the essence of your ways. Silent you indeed were when the situation called for you to be silent, but the words with which you armed yourself earned themselves a certain repute — whether it was good or bad depended on who you asked. 

Thus came the dawning of your time: to helm a quest all on your own. A prophecy was uttered and you, child of wisdom, were at the forefront. The gods placed upon you the task of searching for and retrieving the Harpe — the adamantine sword Perseus used to decapitate Medusa. Two others were placed by your side, not primarily for guidance, but mostly for assistance. They were inexperienced — strong and apt they were, it was fair to say, but inexperienced nonetheless — eager to take orders from you, their leader. Indeed, the position was unfamiliar to you: you worked better behind-the-scenes, pen and paper in hand. But the burden of leadership was appointed to you and you only. You set off, awaiting the arrival of sunrise, sword in your right hand, and in your left, in the place of a shield, perpetual doubt. 

The quest went smoothly, save the occasional monster attack which harmed neither you nor your companions. Then by the dictates of instinct and against those of reason, you read the tabloids. 

DOCTOR [ REDACTED ] PALMER FOUND DEAD AT 48 ( they leave out the details of his death, indicating only that it was caused by a heart attack. The time and place for the wake is stamped at the lower right corner of the paper, inviting former friends and distant family members to come. You wonder if anyone ever accepted the open invitation ).

It does not take long for the words to sink in. The box with which you locked away all memories of Father rattles in its place, the threat of spilling open just mere millimeters away from you. Someone asks if you are okay ( how stupid that question truly was, how incapable of reading the situation ); you do not know who it was, but it is enough to shake you awake for at least a few moments. The newspaper finds its proper place in the bin and you carry on with the quest. You truly were excellent at that: running from things and using obligation as a convenient excuse. 

Camp Half-Blood welcomes you with words of congratulations — you, leader of this quest, has succeeded, accomplishing the task appointed you all while keeping your companions unscathed from battle. You greet the kind words with an equally kind smile, held together for the sake of politeness.

That night, however, you allow yourself to grieve: and for the first time since you were birthed into this world, you offer the darkness your tears. There were no words befitting for the situation, save a few:

Father is dead and everything is worse now

— because now, the guilt of leaving him to the company of his own deteriorating mind eats away at your conscience, no justification strong enough to wrap this up into a neat little box. Finally, you realize ( and how painful this realization comes ) that the reason behind your distrust is because this is how you see yourself: a blight on society — selfish by every right. After all, how can a thief trust his fellow thief? You can surround yourself with the accomplishment of tasks uncountable, but that will never relieve you of your treacherous nature. 

The night paved way for sorrow, but the day did not. Once the sun shone high above the sky, you were back to who you truly were: cold, detached, the perfect strategic machine built by the gods to do their bidding. The box containing your memories with Father is intact once more; it no longer rattles or writhes. The time for weeping  was over; the time for work has come again.

SCENE II: ALL YOU ARE IS A GHOST OF WHAT YOU PAINT YOURSELF TO BE

The years spent at Camp Half-Blood were kind to you — if not the kindest. You remained within the recluse of your own company, forever doomed to distrust even those who earned your admiration. Ten years to the day, the wounds from the Titan War have begun to heal almost in full. The sun shone out the clearer, and while your walls of distrust never weakened or rendered themselves vulnerable, you found that they were no longer needed ( still, you kept them up, just in case, you would say to yourself ).

But war never dies — no, not truly. It can lay in a fitful dormancy for a time interminable, but it will always wake, just as vigorous as before, just as eager to consume all within its path. Good or evil, it did not care; it was blood that it was after, and blood does not take sides. 

You had hardly slept a wink ( you hardly slept these days, in fact; an unnameable threat lies in wait, biding its time so it when its stroke fell, it fell perfectly — with this thought, your heart grew heavy, and slumber was much more akin to a privilege than a necessity ) when you were called to the meeting room. Chiron wore the news on his face: tragedy was waiting for fresh meat. You did not know that you would be among its prey.

Here you all are again, caught in the game of the gods. Except this time, you would fight alongside unfamiliar faces borne by individuals whom you have long called enemies. You detest it — you detest it all; and yet, you cannot escape it. You have been given duty, and duty must not go unfulfilled, no matter the cost. 

The Fate of this quest hangs upon a flitting thread. You do not know what lies in the end, if any of you are even permitted to see the conclusion of this quest. What worries you, however, is not uncertainty — for uncertainty is constant, especially in the lives of demigods; it is your thriving distrust — the instinct upon which you have long depended — that is the ultimate matter of concern. You had hardly granted faith to those who had known you all your life ( Father knew this; Papa and Nana knew this, too ); and to give it so easily to people whom you should regard as foes? Indeed, the gods were desperate; otherwise, they would not have come to such a reckless decision. 

You sail now straight into the land of the unknown, and you cannot promise success to accompany you on the journey back — if you are even granted the privilege of a journey back.

FINALE

Look to the East in search of the rising sun, young Hero — here you will find the courage you desperately lack. You — eager as you are to meet foes in battle and face Death without so much as flinching — must learn that it is not in dying that we find difficulty, but in living. Wise as you are for one so young, you have much to unearth; and this quest, whatever its Fate may be — whether you sail towards triumph or defeat — will teach you all that you do not yet know. Dig deep, young Hero, for it is in the buried that we find what we find what must be wielded in combat. You search your heart for bravery but you find it empty: it has long been punctured and bled out by the distrust you hold so closely to your chest. There will come a time — and the time dawns nearer and nearer — when the walls with which you surround yourself will have to crumble. It is the inevitable; and though vulnerability will plague you, strength will lie in wait at the finish line. Yes, young hero, clutch your fatal flaw closely, closely, closely  — hold it so close so you may grow sick of it and let it go. Young hero, do you not understand what the audience is telling you what you should do? Let go — of all repressions and all suspicions. Only then may tragedy strike so hard that the gods will not have any other choice but to call you a hero.

FATAL FLAW/DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:

DYSPISTIA — distrust.

Wisdom grants a person to see the world for what it truly is: a dark and awful place perpetrating its own demise. It seems a bleak vantage point, but it is the harsh reality of the land upon which we tread so carelessly. Cora recognizes this — rather, she recognized this at such a young age, seeing men such as her Father fall prey to the sweet caress of sorrow; in the women who came home with him, the light of innocence fading from their eyes; and in her grandparents too, who were so eager to force a young girl to choose between her own survival and her loyalty to her Father, if it meant that she would stay with them and give them the opportunity to raise another child in the place of the one they lost to circumstance. It would be fair to say that this judgment is harsh — after all, there is still some good in this world, albeit waning in number; and Cora sees this, too. A hallmark of her personality is her ability to weigh things out, and with this particular case, the bad outweighs the good. Man can no longer trust fellow man because either may give in to selfish desires. That said, her distrust comes from such a deep place, which makes it all the more dangerous and impossible to rid the self of. She grew up exposed to the treachery of man and to the lack of dependability they possessed. At a very unripe age, Cora discovered that you cannot depend on others for anything; and thus, you could not trust them to keep to anything, even their word. Above all, however, what I think nailed the hammer on the head was her own treachery, the sufferer of which was her Father. The irony of it all is that Cora is so quick to preach about man’s vulnerability to treason, and yet when presented with the decision between her own survival and remaining with her Father, she chooses the former, even though she knows that that would entail betrayal at its finest. More than that, she is very self-aware, constantly searching herself for flaws and defects so she can correct them; and therefore she knows that though she’s justified her abandonment of her Father, her real reason for the decision still comes from a terrible place. Cora trusts not even herself to remain true to what is good. How can she possibly trust others  — whose minds she cannot read and whose actions she cannot predict — when she cannot even trust herself? Her fatal flaw stems from an extremely dark place, something that goes all the way back to her childhood. It’s this damaged perception of the intents of other people, along with her own deteriorating conscience which allow distrust to subsist.

EXTRAS:

p e r s o n a l i t y

( + ) brilliant — the mentors of our youth have long impressed in our psyche the beauty of our existence — how privileged we are to even step foot onto this Earth, no matter the time span —  be it great or diminished, we are blessed to have been given the opportunity to live. It is through our souls that this gift of existence is realized: souls, intangible sentinels which grant vigor to our withering bodies. But in all its wonder and mysticism, the soul is rivaled only by another element which brings value to our otherwise invaluable lives: the mind — the mortal mind which gives meaning to the inexplicable and questions the implications of those which are already explained. Every human is given that gift — of a mind so curious and precise in its nature, each differing in its scope and its usage. Every now and again, however, a mortal somewhat greater than other mortals is favored by the Fates ( if you so perceive. after all, to those who actually receive such favors may not regard them as so ), and these mortals are granted minds more complex, more curious, more permissive and less limiting. Cora Palmer is among those mortals who possess such a gift. Her mind works in ways that it perceives things differently — not necessarily in eccentrically, but definitely in manners that no other human or even demigod would see such things. She recalls the day her mathematics teacher asked: is math discovered or invented? She knew the answer to be the former, primarily because she herself was proof of it: she saw patterns in nature ( and in other settings as well; don’t think for a moment that her brain would be caged by a single setting ), and she connected those patterns to figures, figures to formulas, formulas to solutions and answers. Her mind is a thing of wonder: always correct in its hypotheses, never mistaken in its conclusions. It transcends intelligence — it is materialization of something even greater than what most can fathom: it is brilliance itself. Unfortunately, no one ever told Cora that her brilliance would be her own undoing: she wouldn’t have succumbed to it so easily if it were so.

( − ) arrogant — it was sweltering Sunday afternoon when she first became acquainted with the thoughts of Sun Tzu. When she came upon the world of myths she believed were only myths, Cora often wondered if the great warrior had been a demigod himself. A man such as he — so comfortable with a sword within his enclosed palm and his feet upon a battlefield, a sight at which most would cower — would’ve fit the demigod profile with ease. Perhaps it he could’ve been a befitting as a son of Ares: eager to slaughter those marked as foes; or perhaps he could’ve even been her sibling with whom she will never be given the opportunity to know personally ( not that the relationship would bear substance — no such relationship exists in her life, be it bound by blood or not ). Some things Cora would never know the answer to — yes, these things existed, much to her dismay ( and, secretly, her relief ) — but while this question passed out of memory and wandered into a time forgotten, the things written by his hand were not. One phrase in particular fails to fade into triviality, and remains an eminent thought ( or was it more appropriate to call it a reminder, with the way it haunts her waking moments and her hours of slumber? ): know thyself. Know thyself, you know yourself, Cora repeats for the nth time — the exact number she’s already lost to incessant persistence. Truth be told, the statement sounded less like a statement and more of an argument: as though she herself needed convincing. But — as she was with nearly all other things — Cora wasn’t wrong. She knows herself to a fault, she knows others ( or, at the very least, creates very accurate assumptions of who they truly are ) to a degree which even they themselves fail to reach. Cora is well aware of her brilliance, of the shield of invulnerability she creates with the power of her mind. Long has it been since someone lay steps ahead of her ( and she is certain that such an opportunity would never exist again ), and she knows the advantage she holds, all because of the nearly limitless depth of her brain. However, Cora remains unaware of one aspect — an aspect which should not have gone unnoticed: how easily she falls prey to her ego, which has long stood unchecked. The girl relies too heavily on her own abilities, placing herself upon a pedestal higher than those whom she should regard as her equals. She has spawned this belief that she is better than all others who cross her path ( and perhaps she is right, but that is not for her to decide ). Indeed, Cora knows herself; but mayhap certain things ( her arrogance claiming the top spot of this list ) she turns a blind eye to.

( + ) methodical — how easily we all forget the haste at which the rat race moves once we succumb to the folly of immediate glory. If assurance lay anywhere, it lay here and here it dwelt with comfort: in the impermanence of all things, especially of things greatly coveted by man. Akin to the cat locked in perpetual search of the light with which he is so easily teased, man follows those deemed worthy of his time and love to the ends of the earth. Stray but a little from the path — the narrow walkway provided by the gods in his favor — and he risks defeat; and, ultimately, loss of the thing he highly craves. Swift strikes the hammer of impermanence, and with its blow comes the destruction of all notions of earnestness and grandeur. But there is a secret known only to a few — a minuscule percentage of the otherwise massive population accompanying the introduction of the budding century: Fortune — cruel and harsh it may be to nearly all given the due time to walk upon our world — is not without its biases: it favors not only the bold, but those who work toward boldness with the utmost devotion. Youth was kind enough to forewarn Cora of this immutable fact, despite having been exposed only to the limited revelations permitted by an unripe age ( and though these revelations were limited, they were more than sufficient for any other child who did not possess her wisdom, infantile as it was ). The tenderness of her age did not inhibit the realization by which a fragile heart was felled: in order to be where she wanted ( Father claims her destiny lay in the Hall of the Greats, as aforementioned; her grandparents believed she was to follow in their footsteps which, though waning in influence, remained prominent within the field of astrophysics; and Athena, privy and clandestine as her thoughts were, probably intended her daughter to follow the path paved towards glory — after all, Cora’s success was her own as well: a victory to which her own name was attached by default. All who surrounded her seemed to forge an idea of where she was to be, once Slumber came and refused to leave — but where was it she wanted her feet to traverse? The answer — or the jarring absence of one — terrifies her ) — in order for her life to be given some measure of value — she needed to prepare for the worst by constantly being at her best. Cora discovered how vicious the world was to the idle — to those who bide their time not for thought, but for indulgence. She was not to be among them; not if she wanted to know the worth of her while. Sleepless nights were pursued to ease the attainment of a valuable existence. Plans — long-term or short-term, detailed either way — were formed because I have to, she reiterated, both to those who questioned her ways ( friends, they were called long ago, but they too have passed out of memory ) and to herself. It was an arduous process: to have her mind constantly search for all the problems and formulate a solution for each one long before they even present themselves as problems — but it’s gotten her this far. The method to the madness ( madness of the mind, this kind of madness was ) was an effective companion. If she prepared for every possible circumstance — may the odds surrounding such circumstances be substantial or not — then Fate would not be able to take Cora by surprise. But one can only plan for what they foresee, and while hardly devoid of prudence, there exists a limit to all things: even her ability to prepare.

( − ) inflexible — we are to be as the waves: commanding in our fury, malleable in our undoing. Violent as they were when unconstrained, even the seas knew to bend to the will of the Moon when she claimed her rightful place in the sky alongside the uncountable constellations and the infinitive darkness among which she dwelt. It seems an old wives’ tale, how we are told all this: no more than a collection of synapses lost to youth and time, mere reminders our parents tucked us into bed with — pillow on the right hand, life lesson on the left. But guides were not provided for each child, extensive as their numbers were. Most travel through earth and time with a mother or father ( or mother and father, or mother and mother, or father and father — whatever the case may be ), the frailty of their tiny palms upon which the promise of the world rests is locked into another palm — old of age and etched with features to make it evident so. Some, however, are not so lucky on this front. There were they: the children who — long before they could even recite their ABCs or sing songs of lambs and bridges in full — discovered innocence too was mortal, as nearly all things in this world are. As naivety met its end, so came knowledge — the landmark of the passing of youth. Cora was among the latter, and she too lacked the proper guidance supposedly owed to every child. Father was less like a father and more like a ghost: an unrestrained and fading spirit trapped in a corporal existence, slowly rotting with time and sorrow; and of course Athena was never a mother, more akin to an unfathomable constellation than to the child’s early perception of love ( she tried, in her most earnest efforts, to provide Cora with the guidance she required when the need was dire, and she tried, in her truest desire, to love as much as a god could love, but it could not be enough to fill the void Cora was born with ). With that, she grew, never to know that we are to be like water — flexible when the time for flexibility arises. Through her systematic ways, Cora stood firm by the belief that rigidity was equal to reliability. To bend to the will of circumstance — even when it called for such an action — was a foolish man’s alternative. Arrogance fueled this belief; the effectiveness of her methods the deciding factor. Her plans — in all their precision and accuracy — proved that adaptability to all other things was unneeded. After all, when you had prepared for everything, how could you stray? Why would you stray? This incapability to bend and break as the wind demands would one day dictate her downfall, although she knows it not — at least, not yet. While the other demigods with whom Cora must now work learned to be as adaptable as the waves, she bears more similarities to the rocks against which they crash: rigid, planted firmly in placed, doomed to erode overtime, even with their seemingly abounding strength.

( + ) subtle  — treachery exists in one too many forms: in sizable manifestations, it rocked civilization and inaugurated wars ( this kind of treachery we have grown familiar with through the aid of these reiterations of the myths of old ); but a certain kind of periodic treachery exists as well, and though meager compared to the former type, it is not to be easily brushed aside. It seeps into friendships and poisons relationships; it destroys reputations and corrupts security. This kind of treachery frightens Cora, although she is quick to deny it. As she is aware of so many other things, she is aware of how easily this treachery manifests itself in even the seemingly tightest bonds. That is the threat perpetually faced by ordinary mortals. But Cora — and the rest of her kind with whom she has long called companions — are not ordinary mortals: demigods are more susceptible to the threat of betrayal than all others who roam this Earth. After all, when one charges into a war front, they do not want to be surrounded by those whom they distrust. But one can never be sure. The most ideal solution ( the solution Cora has opted to bypass ) is to create indisputable bonds, ones which can outlast lifetimes. However, even such bonds are corruptible — this, Cora firmly stands by. They do not eliminate the threat of treachery. Room for such peril always exists, no matter how narrow, and therefore risks exploitation. With that, Cora forged another solution, though she is not the first to go down this route ( her decision to favor this solution marked the first manifestation of her fatal flaw; thenceforth, she could rid herself of it so easily, although no evidence of effort was ever noted ): she built walls around herself higher than those which already existed. The construction of these impenetrable walls started in her youth, and they only grew in size as she quickly shed innocence. Her eyes — expressive as they were when curiosity knocked at her front door — hid behind an unreadable blankness; her face — bright and intense it was when immersed in a world existent only in her mind — was devoid of emotion. They cannot betray what they do not know, through gritted teeth and loneliness she reminded herself. It bestowed itself upon Cora easily, this ability to conceal what went on within the recesses of her mind ( and the gods know how great that number was ). Through this, Cora gained the upper hand in most things: in spirited debates, in games of chess, in hand-to-hand combat ( her adversaries could only anticipate as much as she allowed to display in her actions and expressions, and she allowed none ), in life. Through her subtlety, she was indecipherable, inscrutable, a mystery masking a human being ( there are moments when she feels less like a human and more like a machine — an enigma to curious hands and wandering minds ). Through showing nothing, she risked nothing. They cannot betray what they do not know.

( − ) detached — the gods do not believe in rewards undeserved — this, we’ve established before. For each blessing bestowed, the need for a sacrifice equal in weight ( sometimes, when the gods or the Fates — depending on who steered the wheel of fortune at that particular moment for one particular individual — felt especially malicious, the sacrifice was preponderant to the gift for which it was exchanged ) was demanded. It was a curse borne by every hero consumed by history, given the privilege of immortality through tales and songs forever exclaimed by a chorus of voices from people unseen. It is a curse which has withstood the test of time, haunting the heroes who place one foot firmly in the promise of glory and another in the assurance of death made certain. The demigods tasked to board that ship have long endured this curse — they were all of them birthed with this obligation, desired or otherwise ( of course, it was the latter — it was always the latter; for who would ever willingly give their lives away to agony even when the possibility of glory was dangled before their eyes? ). Aloft the juvenile head of a then youthful Cordelia, wisdom and brilliance were crowned. When consciousness finally prevailed over naivety ( it did not take a long time for the former to do so ), she wore this crown with pride, and it remained within the security of an upturned chin and a watchful  eye. This gift did not go untouched, for through their guidance, Cora discovered the fragility of the world and all who inhabited it. She forged a shield — not one of physical prowess, but of another kind of power that grew too great for words — which guarded her from all the travesties she discovered always hung around the corner. For this, Cora sacrificed one which she determined was unneeded — an element which appeared all the unappealing in her eyes: companionship, in exchange for security; trust, in exchange for peace of mind. The logic devised by her unerring mind seemed without fault: to lead a life of loneliness was preferable to one preyed upon by constant treason. She knew of the fickleness of humans, how quickly friend turned to foe, foe to relentless huntsman, satiated only by the downfall of the person whom they intended to snare. She saw this in Father, in her grandparents as well, in herself too, when she was brave enough to acknowledge the thought ( truth be told, she saw this in the gods too: she could not be fooled by their glory; she knew they too had to give in to treachery at one point or another to seize and secure the power upon which they greatly depend — her Mother Athena was not exempt from this generalization ). Through her sacrifice of friendship, Cora bore upon her shoulders the burden of loneliness — loneliness so harsh it puts the bite of the first winter day to shame; loneliness so cruel it breeds a life of misery and torment within a mind caged by itself. Separated from all other humans and demigods by the walls she elected to build, Cora stands alone, never to have her thoughts discovered or the authenticity of her self unearthed. Alone, she has chosen herself to be, and alone she will remain to the end of her days, or so she chooses to believe. After all, one can only outlast solitude so long as willpower holds out; and though she does not lack it, it is waning in size. Subtlety is the seed with which her distrust was spawned; detachment was the ruthless sun which permitted its seemingly unending growth.

( + ) pragmatic — for each concept of abstraction exists one of its polar opposite, neither preponderant nor inferior in weight. These elements and their consequent paradoxes are trapped in a perpetual game of tug of war, constantly waging war against the other, ultimately keeping the balance of the universe intact. For every action comes an equal opposite reaction — such are the ways of our world, whether we like it or not: for every child born, another mortal meets his end; for every fire kindled in secrecy, another flame consumes itself and leaves nothing but ashes in its wake; for every dreamer lost to the greatness of whatever masterpiece he may be constructing in his mind or with his hands, a realist arrives, bearing the weight of constant sound judgement upon his shoulders — the same weight which keeps his feet firmly sewn into the ground upon which he walks. Through the realist’s eyes, Cora sees the world and all who roam within it. Knowledge is perceiving things and people for what and who they truly are; wisdom is acknowledging that each situation is identical to all those that precede it, the minor details — names, places, dates — changed only to create the pretense of difference. Always, the past repeats itself in manifestations that suit the time periods wherein they are recreated: the same foes battle the same heroes; the same heroes are felled by the same tragedies; the same tragedies are sung throughout history, only by new voices and new faces — new victims to the folly of admiration. As he grows older, the realist becomes more and more aware of this, which is why he is not so easily swayed by the promises of a worse or better tomorrow: for he knows that tomorrow will stay exactly the same, no matter the actions of man, granted so little control of so few things. With this piece of information borne in mind, however, the realist is more cautious with his tasks — and Cora is not an exemption to all others who fall within this category. She knows of the troubles that haunted the heroes who have long ventured into a time forgotten, and she knows that these same troubles plague the heroes of this new juvenile age. The probability of failure always outweighs the chances of success, which is why it must be addressed as early as possible, long before it even manifests itself as a probability. The practicality of the views spawned by her mind exists hand-in-hand with her methodical nature: through the former, Cora creates an intrinsic need for the latter; through the latter, the reason for being of the former is justified. The dreamer — great and successful as he may be — is a fool, for Cora ( above all others ) knows that those who dwell only in the stories birthed by their brains will never grow accustomed to the harshness of reality; while the realist — miserable and tortured by their own perceptions as he may be — will always be one step ahead ( and the gods were foremost witnesses: of the importance Cora placed on being a step, or maybe ten, ahead of her foes. In her eyes, before the battle of the fist comes the battle of the mind; and what weapon would be more terrifying than that forged by realism? ). 

( − ) repressive — to an individual bereft of better judgment, attaining a long coveted desire is a blessing handed down directly to him by the gods out of the goodness of their hearts ( oh, how foolish can one be to come to the conclusion that the gods even have hearts, much less do something charitable purely for the benefit of another ). But the gifted and the favored know that the aspects of themselves envied by all others who lay eyes upon them are the very things that bring about their destruction. A painter who aspires to be like Van Gogh lacks awareness of the demons he warred with, once he got away from the scrutiny of the public; a writer who longs to pen verses and novels as Sylvia Plath did does not acknowledge the part in history where she claimed her own life out of despair and agony unavoidable; a fool who desires the brilliance and acumen of a wise man does not understand the responsibility and affliction attached to what he perceives to be a gift. The astute are forever doomed to fall victims to their own thoughts — thoughts which — although impressive for they are thoughts beyond the wisdom of their years — seep into the recesses of their beliefs, corrupting all notions of joy and innocence, beauty and wonder. Perceptions turns to poison, poison induces death: death of the self and death of their belief in the goodness of humanity. On those nights when sleep fails to come easily ( and lately, those nights have only increased in number ), Cora, too, succumbs to such thoughts ( she succumbs easily, but only because it is the nature of her kind: children of the wise and the damned ). Did it have to be this way? To accompany every situation reviewed with an analysis rationalizing its existence, no matter how terrible the situation may be? To place all emotions under the jarring scrutiny of judgment, if only to provide ample justification on why they are immoral? Oh, how the woe of wisdom claims a life: not in a physical sense, no; but in a metaphorical one. What little spirit still survives within Cora suffers just a little bit more each time she rationalizes herself out of feeling — as though it is taboo to do so: a sin with which her hands are marred. Father did not deserve anger, for he acted out of despair. Papa and Nana did not deserve tears, for they acted out of folly. Athena does not deserve bitterness, for she is a god and it is in her nature to abandon. Always, there was a reason why every emotion should be suppressed in favor of apathy. But, child of wisdom, did no one tell you that moving on from squalor was not equal to running from it? To move on, she first had to face the emotion — if that implied her heart would break into a thousand pieces did not matter. This was the right route, the healthy route ( the route she opted not to pursue ). Instead, she stored those emotions into neatly wrapped little boxes, stamped with an argument as to why they never should’ve existed in the first place, sealed with the promise that they never would be opened, even when temptation seemed all but waning. Cora knows the misery that accompanies meeting such foes head-on; but she remains ignorant of the greater misery that escorts this false anesthetic with which she has become addicted to.

( +/- ) goal-oriented — when the value of the self and of all other things has been reduced to rubble, what remains is the value placed upon the scope of one’s achievements, no matter how minute in the eyes of the deities who look down on them. As the impossibility of the attainable increases, so does the self-worth of the individual who relentlessly pursues it. We wrestle with the concept of undue grace — if we do not work for the astonishing, then are we entitled to receive it at all? What worth would our lives have if we do not sacrifice what little time we are granted for those which we deem deserving of our love? ( Indeed, the gods have increased the breadth of their influence to the inhabitants of our world: no other logic as foolish as this exists other than that shared by those whom we blindly revere ). Written on the palm of our brittle hands — penned by the same hands which bear such things — are the words of our destiny, albeit invisible to the mortal eye. It becomes a subconscious drive: the magnetism of these unseen words. An individual instinctively follows the path written by him during a time immemorial, at the end of which awaits the thing they desire the most — be it glory or power, or perhaps something less corporal such as immortality. But some are devoid of these hidden destinies, and the Fate which shall befall them on a later time remains unclear. Consequently, there are two possible alternative walkways between which they must choose: the first is a trackless journey — one without a fruitful destination stationed at the end or a concrete beginning from whence they built lifelong foundations ( this is the walkway creatures devoid of all motive take — those who are hollowed out versions of themselves following a tragedy from which they could not move on ); and the second is a torturous expedition, for it robs mortals of the one characteristic that places them above other creatures: free will. This course is shaped by those other than the man involved, forever dictated by beings greater than he — by the gods or by the Fates, it did not matter; what mattered was the false sense of worth that accompanied the attainment of the tasks assigned them ( this is the walkway Cora has inevitably followed: because as brilliant as her mind may be, she remains uncertain of what to do with the residue of her years, if there are any to remain following this quest ). The worth of her life is dictated by the situations wherein she proves her intelligence be more than just a piece of shock value with which she hinders the idiotic or excites the easily impressed. It stands as evidence: that she is more than a series of silencing quips; that she, in her prime and in her ruin, is enough. Through this ceaseless cycle of receiving assignments and accomplishing them, Cora creates an illusion of direction: that somehow, some way, her life is not devoid of a concrete path ( though this path is not built by her own hands, and she knows this ). But her eagerness to complete the tasks she is given grows at a terrifying rate. There are moments when Cora realizes that she will not stop — not for friend or for self — if only the security of her success is ensured. It creates the internal dispute: if the life of another is endangered at the cost of this quest, would her morality reign supreme, or would she fall victim to her intrinsic need of external approval? Cora is, for numerous times now, devoid of an answer; but unlike her attitude with the other questions lacking a solution, she is not eager to know the response to this particular query. Truth be told, Cora does not trust herself enough to give the correct answer — the morally right answer.

h e a d c a n o n s

when your shadow crosses my door,

Darkness creates refuge for clandestine thoughts — dangerous concepts which should not be tampered with so lightly, especially under the scrutiny of others who are quick to come to undue judgments. Hence, sleepless nights — nights when the blackness of the sky overpowered the ebbing sheen of the Moon and the weak glimmer of stars struggling to reclaim their position in the heavens — were breeding ground for the most perilous thoughts: the boldest of the bold, it should to be fair to say; but their courage to unearth the deepest desires of the mind does not lessen the danger they pose to the human bearing them, especially when acted upon. Cora, however, was not so quick to pursue such thoughts and translate them into reality. When she ventures into the hazardous section of her mind ( and this happened often, perpetrated by sleepless night after sleepless night ), she treads carefully, allowing sufficient time for judgment and pondering before finally choosing between two alternatives: acting upon them or letting go ( the third option was suppressing the thought until forgotten, although she’d much rather say it was only between the two ). But this quest — this unspeakable quest and the burdens that rally against her self-built walls, colossal only in size but crumbling slowly through its weak foundations — has paved a wider pathway for such thoughts ( indeed, she found enjoyment in exploring the unknown; but too much of even the things we love can breed contempt ). One, in particular, Cora has sworn to secure in her keeping and her keeping alone: long has she feared of what dwelt in the West, but the truth divulged with the rest of the details of this quest dispelled all such apprehensions and gave rise only to doubt and hatred ( as was the frequent case for the girl ). But with these newly discovered — and ultimately stocked away — emotions came a secret thought — a covert little whisper that has tried to eliminate itself from Cora’s psyche but failed to do so. In her heart rests a budding respect for the Romans: it came almost immediately, especially at the revelation of their ways — strict and militaristic, it seemed, but it was the way Cora had always wanted things. If she excelled in things other than the academic, it was in following orders. Beneath the pretense of skepticism and aversion, Cora holds a secret admiration for the Romans and the discipline with which they governed themselves. Perhaps she would’ve even found ease being among them, had the divide not existed.

please enter without fear.

Tomorrow is the immediate future all individuals look toward for encouragement. In the midst of a bleak and disheartening present, it was the next day that bore the only realizable promise of hope. Heroes, especially, had a tendency to fall into this habit, whether they were aware of it or otherwise: Odysseus looked to the light of the next day as he journeyed back to Penelope; Dorothy was eager in her pursuit of the Yellow Brick Road because it held the vow of rewarding her with home once she had reached its conclusion; Frodo and Sam, heavy as their Burden was, rationed their food evenly for the adventure that lay ahead, but also for the one that turned back once they had completed what they set out to do. It was human instinct: to hang onto the little snatches of hope which presents itself during the darkest points of our individual quests. But to the mind which could only perceive reality for what it was and not for what it could be, tomorrow was but an expected visitor who always forewarned them that he might not be able to make it. Cora’s mind was set on the matter: tomorrow is not promised anyone — not her, not the Greeks, not the Romans ( not even the gods, she would’ve said if she didn’t risk being smote right then and there ). All they were granted was the time in which they existed: the present. Beyond that, Cora needn’t look too far, save when the matter involved strategy in war; then, they’d have to look as far as insight can permit them to. Indeed, as soon as the quest was introduced to them and she was indicated to be among the Company who set out towards the unknown, her mind immediately jumped to what should be done next. But task given her aside, when merely the wonderment for the sake of wonder was in question, she didn’t bother with what tomorrow had in store. Perhaps the others had already prepared themselves mentally for the journey back. Perhaps they thought only of home as soon as the Ship departed. But not she. Cora will plan for the potential Fate of this quest and strengthen their defenses as far ahead as her mind can conceive, but she does not entertain the idea of seeing the end of the journey. It was an inkling that rattled her bones, and she was frightened of what it whispered: it guaranteed demise ( failure, perhaps? Was she just too terrified to label it appropriately? ), whether it be her own or someone else’s. Either way, Cora isn’t prepping herself to be eager for the journey home — she might not even be a part of it in the first place.

but remember not to ask where i’d been,

When the clock struck ten, the halls had to be devoid of all noise ( save the moaning of Father and the women he constantly brought home, of course ), creating silence that was so pristine you could hear a pin drop. This was one of the numerous rules Father had concocted to create a false sense of discipline within his home ( again, it felt vile to call that building — which held beauty in its vestibules once — home. It felt disgusting, like a nasty lie which called upon a violent reaction in the depths of Cora’s stomach ). They were unnecessary, this much Cora knew. She was a creature of habit and perpetual self-control; whether the rules were present or not, she would’ve exercised an extensive level of restraint, even with the instinctive response to rebel that Youth often bestowed upon its sheep. Each rule she followed, not out of respect for Father ( for she had none of that ), but because it was convenient for her desire to mold herself into the very best version she could possibly be. When the clock struck ten, the halls had to be devoid of all noise — turning pages of books accumulating years within the corners of its spine was hardly noise. This was done with ease. Homework must be completed before dinner; otherwise, food would not be presented on the table until done so — homework was completed hours before her feet touched the floorboards of the house. This rule and the threat that accompanied it lost all impact when Cora realized how painfully easy it was to complete the homework given them, even after she was accelerated to a higher grade. She discovered some sick sort of enjoyment in following the rules intended to torment her into a life of discipline, ignoring the clauses of threats accompanying them, for she did not need a reminder. But one rule in particular Cora was rather vexed with: The television in the living room is simply for display. No one shall turn it on, for news or otherwise. Then, when she had not been consumed wholly by her thoughts and the desire to belong among her peers was quintessential, she realized they were all exposed to the splendor of television. It seemed out of character for her not only to prioritize curiosity over discipline, but also to nurture this desire to defy the orders clearly placed before her. Of course, cautious as she was in her actions, Cora never actively pursued these sudden spurs of rebellion; especially not against Father, who — unlike her — was so quick to succumb to emotions. It was best not to anger him. As poverty overtook their lives and Father searched for himself at the bottom of empty bottles and beautiful women who did not demand much, they eventually had to sell the TV. It was not until at the age of eleven did Cora — following her adoption — witnessed firsthand all that dwelt within the small box of wonders; and by the gods was she enthralled. She had been prohibited for so much for so long but this, in particular, hammered the loss of her innocence right into place. During the last moments of desperation, Cora attempted to reclaim it through watching as much as she could, taking in as much as her mind permitted her to ( and it permitted her to retain so much ). Although doomed never to reclaim the childhood she lost to maturity and anguish, the habit persisted, and she now possesses an unusual and inexplicable love for cartoons.

or what had fed me in this empty room  —

Money remains a prominent vice, corrupting the already corrupted and luring the pure to join them. Women sell their bodies, men bare their souls, and mortals shed flesh and grind bone to attain even just the slightest taste of wealth. But what then presented itself only as reward, money has transcended even that and achieved a greater power in society: it has become a need, a requisite to living. Without it, comfort is put on hold and survival dies with the softest flicker. When Father’s soul departed this world but his body persisted, damaged as it was, the responsibility of keeping them afloat was placed partly upon Cora’s shoulders. Though the obligation was never groomed into a formal statement or even given a second thought, the Father and daughter who inhabited the slowly deteriorating house — the paint barely clung to the walls, the roof slowly caved towards their upright heads, and vermin roamed the halls freely, calling it home more comfortably than Cora ever did ( the building seemed to die alongside its owner — it understood his plight more than his own daughter ) — came to what appeared an unspoken agreement: he would assure their survival with what little remained from the days of glory, so long as she assisted in any way she could. But what could a ten-year-old do that made a substantial difference? Even with her greatest efforts, what accomplishment could she permeate that would pass for a presentable contribution? Then it dawned on her — the very thing which would later bring about her torment could presently be used as a tool, a perfect device to feed the ambitious while satiating the desperate: her intelligence, burdensome as it was, provided her the perfect means to find some extra cash — of course, perfect did not necessarily equal right. Be that as it may, she had no choice ( or rather, a staggering lack of realistic ones ): people paid a high price in exchange for test answers — especially from the smartest person in class. Fools and idiots alike clamored for Cora’s help, and this need she exploited for as long as she could, just until her grandparents literally came knocking on their front door. The only threat to her underground business was a tattletale, though the odds of such a person prevailing were minimal. An advantage to a terrifying aura was existent after all. Sometimes, when the guilt ate away at her conscience, she reminds herself, You have no choice. After that, a deep breath. Once more, the whisper consumes the deafening silence, It’s their future for your survival. Remember that. And as she does with all other emotions, Cora wrapped that guilt into a nifty box and set it aside.

curtained with fine webs of silk.

Books made safe and trustworthy companions, cold as they were. When the edges of pages darkened slowly into a deep brown and the spine showed the first signs of age with the lightest cracks, they seemed almost human, and steadily, their warmth grew within the grasp of youthful palms. As real human beings were spurned in favor of seclusion, the significance of the company provided by books grew in size, as though they had not already taken up a considerable portion of Cora’s life long before. Before Father abandoned his daughter to look for his soul in places and things and people which would later reveal themselves to be fruitless expeditions, he left a gift — perhaps the only real gift he has given her without harming her in some way during the process ( Father’s rules — effective as they were in enforcing a sense of discipline — and Father’s constant reminders of the greatness that would await her later in life, if only she followed the path of knowledge  — affirming her belief that she would one day attain the unattainable — robbed Cora of the childhood due her: full of life, beauty, and wonder. In its place stands premature wisdom, yes, but there is also so much misery and pain hanging onto the toughness of her ankles when she threatened to wander even in the slightest ). But with books, she unearthed only goodness her mind could never perceive ( not even when she attempted to ).  At three, she tore through stacks of books; at five, she devoured them by the shelf; at nine, she had nearly finished the miniature library situated in their home ( this was the only part of the building she could safely call home ), from Machiavelli to Shakespeare to Nietzsche to Hugo to Tolkien.  It was the first book she ever laid her eyes upon, however, that led to this undying love for the realms that existed within printed word: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath — the only novel to be published by the poet — was the key to this then undiscovered door of affection for books. At the meager age of three, she read of war, of breakdowns, of sadness and of anger through the words of Plath. Cora’s brilliance never yielded so easily to youth, and though she mightn’t necessarily have understood the themes explored by the novel in full, she understand enough to know the truth about books: that unlike humans, they were steadfast in their words, for they would never change. Dark and dangerous as they were to the impressionable mind ( she herself never had this problem, needless to say ), they at least told the truth, refusing to hide behind pretenses of fallible honesty. 

ignore the seethe of all my memories.

When we are born, we are presented with the promise of glory. Demigods and mortals alike are granted that promise, but it came with a condition: one had to strive to the best of their abilities to pursue that glory relentless; otherwise, the promise would die along with their corporal existence. Work ethic was never the issue with Cora. Whatever she set her mind to, she could achieve, simply because she coupled natural excellence with discipline — discipline which she has long hardwired into her system. However, when it came to the promise of the future, before perseverance can abound and glory can be achieved, one had to choose a path, first and foremost. All her life, Cora is reminded of the marvelous life which awaits her — a life that persisted even after Death has come knocking on its doors, and not simply as a visitor; and her intellect was quick to affirm that destiny, for she knew that with the prowess of her mind, she could be stopped by only a handful of things, among them her own self. What she so desperately lacks — and by complete misfortune, it seems to be so —  is a path. Before Cora discovered her origin as a demigod, she constantly looked to the future in anticipation of what lay in store for her. However, what greeted her was an unwanted sight: it was the multiplicity of options — the limitless probabilities to a limited life. Cora could’ve pursued anything she wanted, but she wanted so much and was also presented with so much that to choose one was simply an insult to her capability. Following the first Titan War and Father’s death, the realization came upon her in an instant ( and she was thankful for such a realization ): caught in this new life where the certainty of death outweighed the percentage of success, she no longer had to choose. This is among the multitude of reasons why she opts to stay at Camp Half-Blood the whole year round ( at the forefront, of course, remains her inability to acknowledge a place as home, even when presented with one ). At the end of all things, Cora chose not to choose, planting herself firmly in the belief that her Fate had already been decided, whether she liked it or not.

come, take my hand: i am human at your touch.*

The foundation upon which morality was built has long induced confusion among humanity across ages lost to time and history. It should be simple, especially when reduced to the duality of options, but it is not. Right is not necessarily right, and wrong is not always wrong. The relativity of what is morally correct and what is not creates a dispute among judges and wise men: for how could morality be sought out with precision when its very foundations lay in its subjectivity? Every now again, when man comes to the belief that all has been figured out, someone comes along to disprove his theories and render him scrambling for the truth yet again. With the ushering of this brave new world came Cora, a girl who attaches the most logically sound explanations to the vilest of actions — indeed, this is a fine exaggeration, but to regard it any less would destroy all intents of emphasizing the malevolence of her decisions — decisions which have long been justified by arguments that made the utmost sense. A very prevalent problem with Cora is how easily perceives what is wrong to be right, simply because she has concocted reasons for their existence — reasons which, by their truest nature, are not devoid of logic. They abound with only with logical that it destroys any room for claims otherwise: what is wrong can be right, so long as it is given the proper justification. But Cora does not do this simply to commit wrongdoings for what they are, no; she does this to create the belief that for all actions that may fall within the scope of moral ambiguity, a reward preponderant to the action is granted — at the expense of doing what one might regard as an atrocity, another regards only as a sacrifice for the greater good. Cora has long forged the idea that heroism must come at a price; and if that price is treachery against another individual, then the route must be pursued regardless. It creates this perpetual cycle of differentiating right from wrong before realizing midway that the lines between both sides blurs every so slightly, releasing humanity from abiding by the rules of ethics. What should create a moral cold war within Cora’s mind fails to do so, because with the way she sees things, if only to uphold efficiency and secure success, the end will ultimately justify the means.

*source

a d d i t i o n a l   h e a d c a n o n s

Cora is the traditional ISTJ which, coupled with her Enneagram result of 5w6, create an individual who becomes the hallmark of an immense capability and constant hunger for information. They do not seek knowledge in the same manner as Intuitives, who devour information when the desire arises, but they accumulate it in a such a way that it follows a specific method. In other words, they are more careful with their approach. To summarize her personality, however, can be done so in a few words: most efficient problem solver.

Based on the Pottermore test, Cora is a Slytherin-Ravenclaw mix. She does not actively hunt for knowledge purely for knowledge the way Ravenclaws do — although she can also appreciate intellect for intellect only — rather she uses what she absorbs and imbibes into her plans, propelling her forward towards her goals, as would a Slytherin.

Coffee and tea never truly worked their caffeine wonders on Cora. Her primary choice for stimulants were canned soft drinks (it was imperative that they did not come in the bottle — a purely preferential decision) and bags of candy. It didn’t really matter what kind of candy — although sour belts were preferred — so long as it gave her the necessary rush to work overtime.

There was a very extensive period when Cora obsessed over Black Mirror. She couldn’t watch more than two episodes at a time, considering she would immediately delve into a deep analysis of the elements present in and the themes tackled by each episode. 

Reasonably so, Cora detests modern technology. It is among the many things which have earned her distrust. She keeps her iPhone 6 purely for communication (although there would be no apparent need for it, considering she had no friends to text, as lonely as that sounds).

When she does use her phone, however, she signs all her text messages with the initials of her first two names succeeded by her surname typed out in full.

On the subject of names: Cora has not gone by Cordelia following her betrayal of her father. It seemed hypocritical, among many other things, to not only go by the name he had christened her with, but also to bear the name of King Lear’s daughter who had remained loyal to him to the end.

Cora is a musical snob. She refuses to listen to anything released after the year she was born, with the very unbiased exceptions of Hozier, Rihanna, and Beyonce. 

p o t e n t i a l   p l o t s

i. THE UNKNOWN

One of the hallmarks of Cora’s character is her recluse nature which, of course, stems from her instinctive distrust of others. Needless to say, her initial reaction to this quest — apart from creating strategies in her head to achieve the task in the quickest and most efficient manner possible — was to build walls higher than those which already existed. Cora distrusts her fellow campers, she distrusted her family then, she even secretly distrusts her judgment in fear of taking the wrong step towards the nameless Fate that awaits all of them — how is she supposed to put her faith in the Romans, especially considering the fact that they were all, up until a few moments past, sworn enemies by default? These traits are the very things that make it so fun to portray her character! She’s thrust into a situation of discomfort — she above all else, I think, because skepticism comes so easily to her — and there’s no getting out of this. Unlike Camp Half-Blood where — which through its massive size — she is allowed to avoid nearly all, if not all interactions, had there been no explicit need, and unlike her first quest which she was conveniently at the helm of, accompanied by two other demigods who took orders as easily as she gave them — there’s no escaping human contact on the Argo II. Yes, it’s massive too by its own right, and yes, locking herself in her cabin is always an option, but for the sake of the quest, Cora is forced to interact with 13 other individuals, half of whom are people she does not know at all; otherwise, she risks sowing the seeds of division and thereby endangering the fate of the quest itself, which is the last thing she wants. With this, I’d like to explore those first bouts of awkwardness and obvious distrust, be it with fellow Greeks or the Romans. Cora hasn’t had a real conversation in years, and she’ll be dealing with individuals who are as headstrong as she is. I think that’ll make for color interactions. With her characterization,  I draw very heavy inspiration from Captain Holt from Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and truth be told, I think Cora will follow a similar storyline. She’ll start out as this unreachable “robot” devoid of all emotion, until she eventually sheds her walls a little bit, perhaps talking to the others on a deeper level and finding common ground. Maybe there’ll come a time when she’ll dispense advise (because she’s quite great at that, frankly enough), and through that she’ll discover that although she isn’t wrong that the world is full of every reason for distrust to persist, there are some individuals who are worth trusting, even if they comprise but a small percentage. 

ii. THE UNWILLING

Angst and drama are among my favorite plots to explore. I do love softness and fluffy plots on certain occasions, but the reason why I provide such a strong basis for torment for all of my muses is because it makes for great drama later on. The fact that Cora suppresses her emotions so often — and she does this so well, leading her to believe that she genuinely is okay — which, of course, she isn’t. I wouldn’t say she’s lying to herself, because like I said, she truly thinks she’s moved on from those past demons, but her firm belief in this makes it all the more enjoyable for me as her writer. I’ve been trying to recall what went on during Heroes of Olympus, and while I don’t remember precise plotlines, I do remember snatches of the demigods being forced to face their past and all other things from which they run, if I’m not mistaken. With Frank, it was the death of his mother; with Nico, his sexuality, with Hazel, her own death; with Jason, his abusive mother, and so forth. I know the roleplay doesn’t follow PJO and HoO canon, and this potential plot for Cora is based purely on my unrefined guess that they will have to face some trials similar to the ones faced by the heroes in the books, but I’d really like to explore her unwillingness to acknowledge the vulnerability of her emotions. She’s buried them with the utmost security, but if this quest will be as dramatic and excruciating as I envision it to be, then I do think those repressed emotions will resurface, whether she likes it or not. What’s worst is that suppressing feelings can take its toll on the human mind, and honestly, I’d like to have her reach her breaking point and spontaneously combust, and perhaps for a time become an ineffective member of the crew. One of the things Cora boasts about is the strength of her mind, and if the emotions she has long repressed and compartmentalized so she may believe they no longer exist are the only things left occupying her brain, then what else would dictate her worth? I think even she would question that, when faced with this situation, which will only aggravate things. First and foremost though, I really want to see her confronted by the heaviness of the feelings she has tried to and effectively ignored nearly all her life. 

iii. THE UNSPEAKABLE

The last plot point I really want to unearth just a little further is Cora’s relentless pursuit of the success of all things she participates in. When I listed and expanded on her key personality traits, I vaguely implied that she is willing to compromise her morals for the betterment of the quest; and in her headcanons, I touched on her moral apathy — or rather her twisted morality — and how she justifies not only the actions and sometimes wrongdoings of other individuals, but also her own actions and wrongdoings through the genuine belief that she is in the right. Before or following potential plot point number two, I think that the vulnerabilities of the other demigods will have to be explored as well. Again, of course, this is based purely on my hypothesis that this quest will torment them emotionally and render them defenseless for a time. As sinister as this plot may be, I think that it isn’t beyond Cora to either want to abandon another demigod, or perhaps manipulate said demigod into abandoning the quest themselves, if it means securing the success of the quest, or at least giving them a fair chance of doing so. Of course, based on her perception of it, it will be nothing more than a justifiable sacrifice done for the greater good — which, I think, highlights how dangerous she is as a companion. One of the reasons why Cora distrusts others is because she herself is aware of her own volatility and how easily she would sell out others in order to assure the betterment of the world — at least, it is so in her eyes. She’s a terrible team player, not just because of her inability to relate to others, but also because she herself cannot be trusted — not wholly at least, and definitely not for the time being. This may change, especially if plot point number two is explored first, and she comes to the realization that the misdeeds she has so long been justifying and attaching a rational explanation to, although the explanations may be valid, do not lessen the immorality of the act. She has yet to learn that, so this last plot point can go either way, to be quite honest. Whatever the path undertaken, however, I really want her to unearth some moral clarity at the end of it all.

m o t i v a t i o n

There are some points throughout my application that can be a little ambiguous or even contradictory, so I decided to add this section just to clarify how I ultimately see Cora as Dyspistia, metaphors and fancy writing aside, along with what motivates her as a character. One of the highlights of her characterization is her moral distortion — how she views immoral things as moral if they are either in her favor, or if they work towards the end goal she is seeking. In the potential plots above, I discussed how this might later work into the game, along with how it may change as the quest progresses. Apart from that, I also reiterated one too many times how self-aware Cora is, and I think this is how she truly perceives herself. She does not think that by burying her emotions or by justifying her sins she is fooling herself. In fact, I think she’s convinced herself so well of this lie that she believes it to be the truth — which is more dangerous, of course, because it’s harder to rid a person of something they believe to be true. I do think she is very self-aware, but she is blind to so many aspects of herself. Again, I think this can be explored as the game moves forward. Lastly, I wanted to clarify Cora’s motive for success, which is sort of just realizing the worth of her life. For the entirety of her existence, others have convinced her that her wisdom and intelligence will take her places, but she’s never truly decided that for herself. She continually pursues the triumph of quests and battles because it convinces her that her intelligence has indeed been put to good use, despite the clear absence of a concrete ambition. Cora works relentlessly towards victory, even when the gods give her tasks nearing impossibility such as the quest, because in a way, it feeds her delusion that she is heading towards somewhere significant —  which is what everyone’s always told her all her life, which is also what she’s convinced herself to achieve; because otherwise, I think she wouldn’t be able to live with herself knowing that her brilliance has amounted to nothing. Above all else, however, with Cora’s character, I wanted to explore how a single individual can know so much and yet learn so little. Her polarizing characteristics and vantage points are evidences that even wisdom personified can make mistakes, that even the intelligent can falter in their judgment. One of the things that makes me so eager to write for Cora is the probable descent into the realization: that despite what she believes, she is capable of being wrong and of making the wrong judgments. She’s convinced herself otherwise, which is why she constantly affixes a logical explanation to her actions, in part because the internal dictates of reason are telling her that without the appropriate justification, she has come to the most achingly incorrect judgments. At this point of her characterization, she doesn’t want to acknowledge any of that and has done an excellent job of lying to herself to present these things as the truth — when we all know that they obviously are nowhere near the whole truth. Overall, I just wanted to give her flaws that matched her capabilities in ways that would haunt an emotionally repressed and mentally conflicted young adult.

m i s c. 

( aesthetic. )

( character inspiration. )

( pinterest board. )

( mock blog. )

( character tag. )

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME/ALIAS:

hi, i’m nikki, welcome to chili’s

AGE, TIMEZONE, PRONOUNS:

eighteen, gmt+8, she/her

TRIGGERS:

just self-harm, suicide, and vivid depictions of possession

ACTIVITY  & EXTRAS:

it’s our semester break right now, so i’m more or less free for the next few weeks. unfortunately, i have rehearsals interspersed at random points throughout the week and those usually take up my entire day, so there will be some moments when i won’t be able to go online and do replies, but i will get to check in every now and then! other than that, however, my schedule is pretty much empty.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED SKELETON:

Dyspistia, love of my life

CHARACTER NAME:

↠ cordelia [ kawr-DEEL-yə ]

Father always spoke of the wonder of the stars: how infinitesimal our mortal lives appear once placed on the same pedestal as these untouchable constellations — indestructible in their prime, beautiful even in their ruin. In their glory, they stood rivaled only by the sheen of the Moon — an enchantress by her own right, even when the Night seemed a void, capable of consuming all.

Father always spoke of the planets, and how each bore its own Moon; sometimes, a single planet was bestowed with the gift of a dozen moons ( maybe less, maybe less, maybe less — but always enough to drown even the darkest skies with a warmth, or perhaps a cool breeze never imposing itself upon the skin to induce discomfort ). When innocence was all but unfamiliar to you, he reminded you why you were named after the Moon — or, rather, a moon: for so long as you stood in the sky, even as you passed out of sight and Time, you would be immortalized by the glory of your existence, however short or extensive that phase may be. Doomed to orbit an unnamed Fate, you would remain uncontested, so long as eternity permitted it.

Father always spoke of the vulnerability of mortals: how the threat of our demise constantly hung by a thread ( he was more than correct with his chosen metaphor, you realized of late ). Although never granted the gift of precognition — of the supernatural variety, it’s safe to say — Father was naught if not a wise man: the soul of an aged preacher clinging to the youth of his body, as did the crow’s feet to the corners of his eyes. Deep in his bones dwelt a certain kind of knowledge — leastways, a special kind of inkling you now so prefer to call — of things you suspect no other could’ve foreseen. He meditated on such things with ease. Perhaps it is a curse that comes naturally to the people of your sort — of Father’s sort: try as you might to deny it, the intelligent and the judicious will always be beasts of burden to the things they know. Such are the implications of this world and the worlds that precede it: that even in the presence of triumph, disaster lies patiently in wait. Perhaps these very perceptions tormented Father then. Perhaps these very perceptions torment you now. Perhaps this is the reason why the pair of you could never find happiness that lasted for more than a few fleeting moments.

Father always spoke of the uncertainty of your Fate, and how misaligned fortune was when it came to your predicament. His aforementioned acumen rendered him aware of what life would be for those who stood in your very position: heroes — personifications only of tragedies divvied into sonnets or songs or plays that tomorrow’s generations may marvel at once their stories were put into writing by the scribes of old. Father knew that one day, the burden of the world will fall upon your shoulders ( he wasn’t wrong ); that war will befall your kind whether you like it or not, and in the midst of that hurricane, you will remain: incarcerated; robbed of a choice ( he certainly wasn’t wrong ). Still, against all dictates of his mind, the vocation of his heart remained intact: even when you were torn in two, your allegiance would stay safe in his keeping. Father called you Cordelia— the name wrung through the vestibules of his home ( you could never call it your home, not without the slightest hesitation ) — christened with the name borne by King Lear’s youngest, the only child to remain loyal to her father. Your own Father hoped you would follow such a Fate: that even in the midst of turmoil, your heart would always return to him. Unfortunately for the hopeful, life operates in such a way that makes fools out of them. It certainly made a fool out of him. Cordelia — a beautiful name cursed with an oath that will never be held fulfilled.

↠ marie [  ma-REE ]

The Hall of the Greats is filled with the miserable. It’s a fair barter in the eyes of the gods, you recently concluded: a fleeting existence furnished with strife in exchange for a death succeeded by glory. What would be the makings of timeless tales if not the pervasive presence of tragedy? Artists and scientists, holy men and innovators, philosophers and politicians — names that, to this day, haunt every nook and cranny of this condemned world — are only ever so achingly different in all aspects, save two: the splendor by which their names are escorted; and the agony which has long attached itself as a steadfast companion to the lives of these individuals: the divine and the damned; the beautiful and the cursed. Such is the Fate of those who make martyrs of themselves — be it for faith in a nameless god, or for defense of discovery in the new and the scorned. No matter the trajectory of their lives, happiness was compromised so they may be remembered by us — temporal beings who will pass through this Earth unnoticed. Long may their names be sung, if only to fully reap the rewards for which they suffered.

The Hall of the Greats would one day make room for you. Father did not strive to keep it a secret — not to you, not to the gods. He was fearless and perhaps even callous in his words: an eager herald of the phenomena you were yet to offer this world, made a firm believer with the mere sight of your infantine self, brilliance interspersed through twinkles nestled in the depths of your eyes. He yearned for moments when he would see you grow in numbers measured only by years ( one, two, three, innocence meets its end, four, five, six, you grow more suspicious of the world around you, seven, eight, thenceforth the ability to discern friend from foe dissipates, nine, ten, you are a child no longer, eleven, twelve, you don your armor with ease and slip into the pretense of heroism ). Father could not find his footing in this world long enough for him to see his wish fulfilled. If only he weren’t so tactless with words — words, which are ever so eager to betray their deliverer. If only he didn’t fall prey to the sway of emotions. If only, if only, too many if only’s haunt your past. If only you faced the challenge posed by the past from which you run with the same courage you carry to the battlefield, you would not be so far from salvation damaged.

The Hall of the Greats is a future you have yet to explore. Father paved that pathway for you long before you could even comprehend the beauty and the sorrow brought about by life. In lieu of stories of girls clothed in rags and ballgowns who made haste to slip unnoticed before the clock struck midnight, or tales of witches — both of the good variety and the bad variety — who cast spells and hexes upon those who felled them, Father told you the lives of those whose footsteps he intended you to follow. It was a painful cycle of constant reminders, day and night, from the light of the rising sun to the soft gleam of the waning moon, as though he doubted your ability to retain such things  — limitless, this ability seemed, to the eyes of many and to his as well, but he could not risk it, lest you faltered. Before the midnight clouds swallowed all that shone in the sky, he recounted the biography ( almost in its entirety, as you now fall victim to retrospection ) of she whose namesake you bear: Marie Curie, the physicist and chemist who also understood the burden of unending knowledge. You see yourself in her ( or, perhaps, Father had told you so just enough times for you to claim the belief as your own ) and no other mortal could possibly understand your plight. But while she battled sexist coworkers and the threat of radiation from which she would later suffer, you met monsters in combat. Sometimes, you wonder if your contribution would be sufficient to grant you passage to the Hall Father intended you to be a part of. Most of the time, however, you care too much about just getting the job done rather than thinking about what comes after.

↠ palmer [  PAH-mər ]

This, you could not rid yourselves of. On this front, Father had not a choice. The surname long brandished as a banner of pride, the mere utterance of which brought both admiration and envy to the hearts of nearby spectators seemed to sour as the years progressed. It was Father’s fault — the pristine white paper upon which vivid blank ink stains impresses these words on your infallible memory. Father who, in his might and wisdom, became a quick victim to the tempting snatches of emotional vulnerability. He of all people should’ve understood the preponderance of the mind over the heart, but even he acquiesced without so much of a decent fight. He tainted the glory of your family name — a name which could’ve alleviated the burden of the path assigned you by millimeters: mere millimeters could’ve made the most tremendous difference. But you could never bring yourself to despise Father for this, no. It was human nature — idiotic and unwise, but nature nonetheless; and you, in all those moments when curiosity hungered and was satiated, knew that each point in time that devastated history was perpetrated by man — man who succumbs so easily to carnal instincts. Oh, the misery of wisdom: this piece of information with which you rationalized Father’s actions forbade you even the slightest manifestation of anger. For how could fury prevail when knowledge had already given it a justification not to?

AGE & GENDER:

22 ( b. January 20, 1996 ), cis female

b i r t h   c h a r t

↠ sun, moon, and ascendant in capricorn

The Fates find enjoyment in their meticulous ways. Perhaps such is the curse of immortality: to seek pleasure in the details insignificant to the mortal eye. The trajectory upon which they set these accursed heroes is a specific path that does not stray, the most minuscule features borne in mind. It was not by chance that the literal thought of Cora was birthed by Athena on the 20th day of January, 1996, just as the harsh sun rose at 6:25 in the morning upon the dying land of our world. Her existence came upon the Earth as a reminder of the perpetual grand ushering of dawn. With her creation came the promise of a new age — whether it is better or worse than that which preceded remains a mystery, so long as the fate of the quest stands upon the edge of a knife. But just as her birth served as a forbearance of the genesis of this brand new age of demigods and heroes, it also stands as evidence of the person Cora has long forged herself to become. To have her birth fall on the very moment the planets aligned with Capricorn seemed almost fateful —  poetic, even, dare I say. She is an apotheosis of her star sign, the very personification of those who fall under the Capricorn category. Pragmatic even in her fantasies and steadfast in her actions, Cora works towards her goals efficiently and effectively. Although not a stranger to haste, she leaves no stone unturned. All her ambitions remain within the scope of achievement — all other tasks beyond the breadth of realism are ignored. Such is Cora’s attitude to all things, even this quest. Although never granted the choice, she still pursues the success of this task because she genuinely believes that the betterment for all remains achievable. It’s a slim chance,  the odds of their victory, but perhaps for once in her life, Cora has opted to take the path of hope; or, perhaps, she just strongly believes in her ability to overturn the course of everything within her control, even the minimal probability of their triumph.

FACECLAIM:

Zendaya

Maisie Richardson-Sellers

Laura Harrier

BIOGRAPHY:

This can be in any tense, any length, any point of view, and any format, whether that be paragraph, bullets, or something else more creative. Please be sure to touch on how your character found out they were a demigod, as well as their lives at Camp Half-Blood/Camp Jupiter up until the quest.

FATAL FLAW/DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:

The skeletons’ “labels” are our ideas of defining characteristics, and in most cases, fatal/tragic flaws for these heroes, translated into either Latin or Greek. Here, we would like you to expand on what this means to you, as well as how you can see this characteristic defining them or ultimately being their downfall.

EXTRAS:

p e r s o n a l i t y

( + ) brilliant —

( − ) arrogant —

( + ) subtle  —

( − ) detached —

( + ) methodical  —

( − ) inflexible —

( + ) pragmatic —

( − ) repressive —

( +/- ) goal-oriented —

h e a d c a n o n s

when your shadow crosses my door,

admiration for the Romans

please enter without fear.

unprepared for the journey back

but remember not to ask where i’d been,

cartoons and robbed childhood

or what had fed me in this empty room  —

let others cheat off of her

curtained with fine webs of silk.

first book ever read was the bell jar

ignore the seethe of all my memories.

no direction in life

come, take my hand.

aware of her flaws, doesn’t change

i am human at your touch.

twisted morality

p o t e n t i a l   p l o t s

i.

ii.

iii.

Alcohol(e?)

I'm going to write about my experiences/ opinion/ attitude towards alcohol in this post. For people that may read this that don't know, I've never consumed alcohol in my life. I'm 21 years old and a student. Is that confusing or off to you? The reason for which I have never drank is that from almost as far back as I can remember my mum was a heavy drinker. Particularly once I started high school my life was changed entirely by my mums relationship with alcohol developed. My mum became addicted to alcohol and her addiction, in combination with her mental health my home life an absolute nightmare. What can a 12 year old boy do when home is hell and he has nobody to confide in or nowhere else to go? Everyday id go home from school not knowing what would await me. Sometimes my mum would go on these alcohol fuelled benders in which she would sometimes stay up for 3 days straight, where I literally had to sneak around my home just to stay out of her sight. I used to go to sleep on a school night and wake up to find her still up, sat in the kitchen still drinking. I'd spend all of my day in school just praying that she would have gone to sleep by the time id got back home. When my mum drank, she was my biggest fear. She could say some of the most hurtful and haunting things and some of the things she said still affect me to this day. Throughout the entirety of my high school experience I fought a private and draining battle at home because of my mums alcoholism. My mum would become a monster when she was under the influence of alcohol, which was most of the time. The days in which she were sober she was so different. She was so remorseful and sorry for some of the things that she would do. Me and my sister grew up in the most difficult environment possible. At times it was like fending for ourselves but living with a demon at the same time who made everything so difficult. There were ruined birthdays and Christmases. Nothing was ever okay. All it would take my mum to drink and everything would become null and void. I'd have to walk on egg shells knowing my mum could snap on me for any reason she could, even just looking at her sometimes could aggravate her. I'd take my dog out for hours in the freezing cold just to get away from her. I'd spend nights crying and just praying that she would go to sleep so I could go downstairs. It was the most toxic environment imaginable. My mum had several spells in hospitals and institutions because of her alcoholism, including what I think was a 6 month spell in rehab whilst I was in college. I've blocked out so many painful memories from that time, but my life at home was an absolute mess because of my mums alcoholism and it's probably played some kind of role in how I am today. It was only due to my mothers body physically being unable to handle alcohol that she no longer drinks. Nothing else worked for her, her addiction was that strong. I want to talk about my experiences with my mums alcoholism in more depth someday but I have blocked out so much of it out and it's not the purpose of this post. I've been thinking a lot about drinking recently despite this. Obviously not drinking has had huge implications for a teenager or a student in university culture. Drinking heavily is seen as a cultural norm of a student, and I feel like my lack of drinking has impacted on me socially. I've felt people have written me off as a bore or weird because I don't drink, or they won't invite me to places simply because I don't drink when I go there like that's the whole overriding point of going anywhere to begin with. I feel like it's potentially stopped me forming friendships with people or that people don't treat me the same way because I don't drink. I've been wondering whether If i did drink it would make me happier as a person. Obviously I struggle a lot with my mental health but I don't do anything that helps with that. When normal people have a bad day they'll get drunk, or they associate being drunk with being happy etc. I wonder recently if the same thing would happen for me. I do feel as though it's something which would be betraying my former self somewhat. The boy who spent years wishing that alcohol didn't exist because of what it did to my life and to my mother. I feel like I would be disrespecting all the time I spent suffering, but I wonder if I did drink id be that bit happier, people wouldn't exclude me purely because I don't drink and that I could make more friends as for a lot of students or young adults in general, it seems as though there's no point going anywhere if it's not to get drunk and if you're not down for that you may as well not go. I'm unsure which direction to go in. I've avoided alcohol for this long that it's kind of miraculous in the environments that I've been in. But I feel like I've paid for it, and that I could of been better off if I just did. The addiction side does terrify me sometimes, I'd say I'd never end up like my mum but my Nan had huge alcohol problems throughout my mums childhood and it would just be history repeating itself over and over. Maybe alcoholism is in my genes. But maybe I could be happy in a way that I can't be sometimes. Maybe I could be more included and not be left out or alienated just because I don't drink. My life has had so many moments of difficulty recently that I've wanted a way out of my head, if only for a day or for a night. Alcohol seems to permit that. People seem to get happier and become carefree. I'm not sure.

03.27.17

My greatest enemy is myself. Such I have known for a long time. Yet what is it that burdens me? Who, or what rules this malevolent dictator inside me? Can he be overcome? should he be overcome? For so long I’ve lamented his existence without once realizing that he must be confronted. Perhaps we have done battle but never have I ventured,sword in hand, to combat this greatest of adversaries. The existential burden, of being thy own worst enemy, of being the only true obstacle to greatness and actualization. Now I shall confront this adversary and return stronger. Firstly, I must name my foe, the negative aspects of self, my opponent. He is not a shadow, for he lurks within. What is his name? Self, Shadow, Me? My passenger? No, he is not distinct from me, but part of me. Perhaps shadow is the term, yet I fear it is inadequate, for this man is weak and timid despite his power, not a capacity within I must control. I know not what to name him other than self. He is not my entirety, not my being, only a fragment. But he must be named. And So I call himself. To confront oneself, such is the goal. What stops me from achieving my highest goals? The goals that one propelled me through existence, once drove me as a master over a horse. Spurred me onwards despite all obstacles. Who’s fear  had harnessed to manifest within me. Perhaps my first question is how such a state left me, perhaps here I find my first adversary. Why did I shy from the burden of my goals? Was it pain, was the pain of desire simply to great? Couple desire with confusion and chaos can permit. Should I remind myself of that darkest of times? Yet surely darkest despair is not the answer. The pain felt from the consequence of desire coupled with a lack of ability to obtain it. Do I desire my goals less now than I did? It is too difficult to see, clouded by the fog of my current being. I want the goals, yet my pursuit has gotten lazy. That is my feeling. My current being would argue that the problem was simply far more complex than I understood. The path is easy to tread when it is clear, yet perhaps the path is overgrown and winding, splitting and numerous. Or is this explanation an excuse? The treachery of self; how difficult this journey is! To even know what is true within is of itself a feat. What is the path forward? Am I on it? Where does it lead? Such questions haunted me for so long, laboring every step and burdening every action. Was that any way to be? Perhaps not. More often than not I was paralyzed by inaction, and frustrated by that very inaction. Frustrated by my own inability to act. Such is the nature of the self i wish t overcome. That unstoppable force of being that prevents action that aspect of myself that prevents. The part of me that has no thoughts, and cannot write. The part of me that does nothing and creates waste. How to I best him? Sloth is not my enemy, it is his result. I fear not work or effort, rather I revel in it. It is a deeper evil within me. Is he a critic? Is he perhaps a truth? No, he is inadequacy. Indeed his name is self. He is my current form, he is the very aspects of myself between who I am and who I wish to be. Pain, thy name is self. He is who must be beaten to achieve fullness of being. The parts of me that must be vanquished to attain my true self, my higher self. Now, what is he? My lack, I respond. Name them! My lack of creativity. No, that is the wrong phrase. My lack of ability to create. Where does it come from? Have I not all manner of time and inspiration? Have i not satisfied the necessities of my current being? Again the enemy is within. It is the self that looks back from he blank page. The  void. The part of me that looks to consume and not create. the part of me that is inarticulate, the part of me that is empty. To be my full self, I must write and create, most deeply I must write. To craft ideas out of nothing, to will into being something worth being. Such is to actualize myself. I have been gifted with the deepest aspects of my purpose. I now see the “what” I must strive for, the reason behind my actions, and yet I am rendered lame by my own inability to do just that. The themes course through me and yet the scenes, the story, never comes. Why? Is it my lack of input? Or perhaps the wrong input? Do I consume incorrectly? That, coupled with my own artistic shortcomings. So frequently am I dissatisfied with my own work, or worse my lack of work. My own lack of ideas. Where does this void emerge from? And how do I best it. How many times must I ask this same question!  Why does he remain so elusive? So enigmatic, the enemy of my creativity. Yet another attribute: the enemy of creativity. My enemy is that which prevents me from creating work I am satisfied with. When my work proceeds as I desire, that is my actualization. Certainly I may never achieve my ideal, yet to walk the path towards it is the greatest of exploits. Yet again I find myself dancing around this problem. I see myself dodging the very target I am aiming for. What is it? What is that which prevents creativity and prevents my self-actualization. What is it within me that halts ideas and creates obstacles? I can see its effects run through me and yet I have no view of the thing itself. As the singularity can only be viewed by its bent space and never directly observed. How can I defeat this foe if I cannot even see him? Where can my dagger land in darkness? Surely this is no small task, to identify this obstacle, as no doubt has been contended with for centuries by many men. But why is it so easy for some?  Is it that I have some warped perception that creates difficulty? or is it an innate problem with myself? No, each has their own journey. I believe I must build myself into the man that is free of such worries. There must be a process to get there. Is it to simply try regardless of the result? To create regardless of quality or meaning? Let go of any purpose? A brutal battle this is. Even now I feel frustration, and self-hate                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             banging at the walls. I suppose I’ll call this progress for today.

"Darkness"

A story I wrote. Pretty amateur but I tried. "Darkness" "Alone I sat, in the darkness, pondering my existence. Lost in my mind, emptiness surrounded me. It feels strange to put my feelings into words because to put them into words is almost proclaiming them to be true, but are they? I've been stuck here so long I've forgotten what is real and what is my imagination. I'm lost inside this oblivion, did I bring this upon myself? The truth eludes me. All I see is darkness, I wonder if my eyes would still see light if it ever came about. I don’t remember where I was before here, it seems like I never really existed until now, but there's something I forgot. I must remember, the truth will set me free. What if this is all I have ever been? There's something out there in the vast darkness, there's something I am forgetting. Am I just lying to myself for some sort of solace? I don't even remember my name! There is no warmth here, my mind races with no comfort. No ease of my anxiety is or has ever been present. I've become used to the feeling, its become so familiar I don’t remember what the opposite is, my mind fails to grasp what it could be. The words are there, happiness, warmth, love, but that’s all they are, words that have no meaning to me. I can't remember anything, I only know what I am right now. I try so hard to remember, something compels me to keep thinking about these lost memories but it always leads no where. The answer lies just past the edge of my awareness, past the infinite darkness. I'm starting to give up. Why am I here? Am I being punished? All I can ever do is ask myself questions. Consciousness moving from question to question, never receiving an answer, only more questions. It is a vicious cycle that always leads me back to the same thoughts. I am only left with this ceaseless void that surrounds me. The same emptiness is now inside. How can one be so full of emptiness? Did I somehow will this torture into existence? Something tells me this is all my fault. I want to be at peace. I want this all to go away. I am helpless at the mercy of my own thoughts. I have no hope, only this unshakable anxiety that this will never end. My mind tells me to wait and something has to change but I feel I am only getting worse. What do I do? I cant do anything but that doesn’t stop the incessant chatter in my mind. I must remember how I got here. The truth will set me free. This must be hell. I can use any other word to describe it. I lost hope long ago, I wish I could say how long ago but I have no idea. Time here is only measured by the beating of my heart, its only been a subtle thump that's really slow, and it seems to only get slower. My mind speeds up while my heart slows down. I can't feel my body, the cold darkness has taken away my senses. Numb. Cold. Dark. Alone. Hell. Am I dead? My heart beats but my blood is cold. Or does my heart even really beat? Its all I've ever heard, but maybe its my mind playing more of its tricks. I don’t even know if my ears work, or my eyes. I can't hear my voice, but is that my ears or my mouth failing? I must be dead. I have no feeling in my body, while my mind wanders. Will I spend eternity here? In this timeless void? I wish that conclusion would give me relief but it only worries me more. My forgotten memory is nagging at me again, I must remember. Its there at the edge of my perception, escaping my mental grasp. It will set me free, free me of this torment. I hate it here. I wish the void inside and out would collapse in on itself and tear me to pieces, whatever is left of me anyway. I need to stop thinking about the end, I need to remember the truth. It will set me free, I know it! But what is it? I have words associated with it but no tangible understanding of what it could possibly be. Light. Love. Warmth. Joy. Peace. Why was this memory taken away? I cannot fathom why I’d be here and not in whatever the opposite is. I want to remember, if I could remember then maybe I’d understand, maybe I’d find hope and freedom. More words that have no meaning to me, only a knowledge of what I haven’t experienced, because one cannot exist without the other right? It’s the paradox of my own existence, if there is dark then there is light, if there is cold there is warm, but where is it? Why can’t I remember? I try to move but no body answers my impulses, my mind wills for movement but I either can’t communicate with my nerves or I am moving and I just don’t know it. Either way I am miserable, suffering in this fucking nightmare, darkness and despair consuming my every thought. I will my mouth to scream in agony, I cry out for death! I can’t stand being so helpless and powerless, where is the light? I would rather be dead than to live through this perpetual loop of crippling doom and needless thought! My heartbeat is still beating slow, I don’t feel any air in my lungs when suddenly something changes! What was that? It a tingle. So subtle. It must be a trick of my mind… this can’t be real. A tingle. So far away. I forgot the word! Its part of that blocked out memory I can sense it. Why do you hide from me? I must know the truth, the truth will set me free! The tingle is still there.. Its my finger!! That’s what it is! I can feel it tingling just at the tip. How? Why? I don’t understand but this change fills me with elation I haven’t felt in an eternity. Something changed! I feel it. It feels familiar and small, lovely! I wonder if any else will change from this bleak existence, I suddenly have a new hope. The smallest feeling yet it means everything! It means there is something. The truth is being revealed! I am getting ahead of myself, the tingle is still there but what does it really mean? Did I will this to happen? I need to remember. The tingle.. Its warmth! How amazing! Something else is changing, I cant tell what it is, I haven’t used any of my senses in some immeasurable time. I’ve only thought about them. The tingle is growing! The most euphoric feeling is starting to come through my hand! I am baffled and confused but it feels too good to question it. Its light! I can see it! So dim and far away but I can already behold its awesome glory! How amazing! Its light! The truth! I remember! Its chasing all the darkness away in every direction, closer and closer it slowly rises upon me! The warmth is starting to radiate through my arm and my upper torso. I suddenly take a sharp gasp and feel the warmth enter my lungs. I can breathe again! This radiant light is the truth! It dispels the darkness and endless torment that surrounds me, it quiets my mind and I can feel its everlasting love. It fills me with joy and a euphoria so amazing, the warm light radiates throughout my entire body now. I remember! The truth! I was lost and now I am found. I was in the darkness and now I am thrust into the light! It comes closer and closer, I can move and feel my entire body again when I start to hear again! How amazing! Angelic voices surround me, it sounds so beautiful! They along with the light take me I to a trance if blissful thought if endless wonder and glory. Splendor I could never have imagined is now complete and distinct reality that I can understand in its entirety. Its amazing! I can now longer fathom my old thoughts, only love and warmth surround me. The light comes closer and closer. The truth! Love. I understand it now. Light. It’s gloriously warm and fantastic. Joy, endlessly abounds and comforts me, this was my memory! I feel complete and alive. My breath is warm and I am satisfied with my existence. But the light still approaches! The voices become louder and the light brighter! The intensity I feel in my body and mind only amplifies with each passing breath! How amazing! Closer and closer and closer it comes! Closer! Closer! Its power increases and suddenly I realize, how much can I take? A doubt creeps and shatters this fantasy trance. Its getting closer! Its so bright! Loud! Then I remember where I was before this and I break out of the bliss for just a moment to wonder, why was I in darkness? If this light existed why didn’t I see it? Closer! Closer! Why? I feel amazing but this intensity starting to hurt my body at it’s core, my body cant take this overwhelming resonance! Stop! Please stop! It hurts! Yet this radiant light only increases more! Why? Please stop! The warmth becomes a fiery heat that I can feel burning my skin, my eyes! My ears hurt from the voices, they suddenly sound like shrieks and screams! Please stop! The heat intensifies, I breathe in pure fire and it burns me inside! I feel my skin melting off my body! My eyes burn and melt out of my sockets and I no longer see the light! I hear my voice for the first time, I scream out, “Please stop!, you showed me love and warmth now I am dying, end this please! This is unbearable! Send me back to the void from which I came, I can’t stand this any longer!” My ear drums explode, I feel my skin detach and my veins drain of all my blood in excruciating pain, my lungs dissolve into nothing and then.. All is silent. All is dark. The pain has stopped but my mind is still reeling. Why am I still here? Why did the light cast me back into darkness? I asked for it to stop, but I only wanted the peace back. I don’t understand. I need the light, how can I exist on knowing the truth? I understand the opposite now and it makes my current state even that much more miserable, I gained hope only to have it torn away, the light burned me alive, that’s the truth. Why? More questions than ever before play through my mind and they will never be answered. I wanted the truth, I wanted to remember.. I can’t go on like this. I can’t go on knowing the truth and not being in its grace.. I must forget it all, the truth doesn’t set me free. The truth hurts, while the darkness is merely numb. I choose numbness over pain, I’d rather be ignorant of what I don't have rather than know.. I brought this upon myself, I control how it goes. I must forget, the truth doesn’t set me free..."

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME/ALIAS:

hi, i’m nikki, welcome to chili’s

AGE, TIMEZONE, PRONOUNS: 

eighteen, gmt+8, she/her

TRIGGERS: 

just self-harm, suicide, and vivid depictions of possession

ACTIVITY  & EXTRAS:

it’s our semester break right now, so i’m more or less free for the next few weeks. unfortunately, i have rehearsals interspersed at random points throughout the week and those usually take up my entire day, so there will be some moments when i won’t be able to go online and do replies, but i will get to check in every now and then! other than that, however, my schedule is pretty much empty.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED SKELETON:

Dyspistia, love of my life

CHARACTER NAME:

↠ cordelia [ kawr-DEEL-yə ]

Father always spoke of the wonder of the stars: how infinitesimal our mortal lives appear once placed on the same pedestal as these untouchable constellations — indestructible in their prime, beautiful even in their ruin. In their glory, they stood rivaled only by the sheen of the Moon — an enchantress by her own right, even when the Night seemed a void, capable of consuming all.

Father always spoke of the planets, and how each bore its own Moon; sometimes, a single planet was bestowed with the gift of a dozen moons ( maybe less, maybe less, maybe less — but always enough to drown even the darkest skies with a warmth, or perhaps a cool breeze never imposing itself upon the skin to induce discomfort ). When innocence was all but unfamiliar to you, he reminded you why you were named after the Moon — or, rather, a moon: for so long as you stood in the sky, even as you passed out of sight and Time, you would be immortalized by the glory of your existence, however short or extensive that phase may be. Doomed to orbit an unnamed Fate, you would remain uncontested, so long as eternity permitted it. 

Father always spoke of the vulnerability of mortals: how the threat of our demise constantly hung by a thread ( he was more than correct with his chosen metaphor, you realized of late ). Although never granted the gift of precognition — of the supernatural variety, it’s safe to say — Father was naught if not a wise man: the soul of an aged preacher clinging to the youth of his body, as did the crow’s feet to the corners of his eyes. Deep in his bones dwelt a certain kind of knowledge — leastways, a special kind of inkling you now so prefer to call — of things you suspect no other could’ve foreseen. He meditated on such things with ease. Perhaps it is a curse that comes naturally to the people of your sort — of Father’s sort: try as you might to deny it, the intelligent and the judicious will always be beasts of burden to the things they know. Such are the implications of this world and the worlds that precede it: that even in the presence of triumph, disaster lies patiently in wait. Perhaps these very perceptions tormented Father then. Perhaps these very perceptions torment you now. Perhaps this is the reason why the pair of you could never find happiness that lasted for more than a few fleeting moments.

Father always spoke of the uncertainty of your Fate, and how misaligned fortune was when it came to your predicament. His aforementioned acumen rendered him aware of what life would be for those who stood in your very position: heroes — personifications only of tragedies divvied into sonnets or songs or plays that tomorrow’s generations may marvel at once their stories were put into writing by the scribes of old. Father knew that one day, the burden of the world will fall upon your shoulders ( he wasn’t wrong ); that war will befall your kind whether you like it or not, and in the midst of that hurricane, you will remain: incarcerated; robbed of a choice ( he certainly wasn’t wrong ). Still, against all dictates of his mind, the vocation of his heart remained intact: even when you were torn in two, your allegiance would stay safe in his keeping. Father called you Cordelia — the name wrung through the vestibules of his home ( you could never call it your home, not without the slightest hesitation ) — christened with the name borne by King Lear’s youngest, the only child to remain loyal to her father. Your own Father hoped you would follow such a Fate: that even in the midst of turmoil, your heart would always return to him. Unfortunately for the hopeful, life operates in such a way that makes fools out of them. It certainly made a fool out of him. Cordelia — a beautiful name cursed with an oath that will never be held fulfilled.

↠ marie [  ma-REE ] 

The Hall of the Greats is filled with the miserable. It’s a fair barter in the eyes of the gods, you recently concluded: a fleeting existence furnished with strife in exchange for a death succeeded by glory. What would be the makings of timeless tales if not the pervasive presence of tragedy? Artists and scientists, holy men and innovators, philosophers and politicians — names that, to this day, haunt every nook and cranny of this condemned world — are only ever so achingly different in all aspects, save two: the splendor by which their names are escorted; and the agony which has long attached itself as a steadfast companion to the lives of these individuals: the divine and the damned; the beautiful and the cursed. Such is the Fate of those who make martyrs of themselves — be it for faith in a nameless god, or for defense of discovery in the new and the scorned. No matter the trajectory of their lives, happiness was compromised so they may be remembered by us — temporal beings who will pass through this Earth unnoticed. Long may their names be sung, if only to fully reap the rewards for which they suffered. 

The Hall of the Greats would one day make room for you. Father did not strive to keep it a secret — not to you, not to the gods. He was fearless and perhaps even callous in his words: an eager herald of the phenomena you were yet to offer this world, made a firm believer with the mere sight of your infantine self, brilliance interspersed through twinkles nestled in the depths of your eyes. He yearned for moments when he would see you grow in numbers measured only by years ( one, two, three, innocence meets its end, four, five, six, you grow more suspicious of the world around you, seven, eight, thenceforth the ability to discern friend from foe dissipates, nine, ten, you are a child no longer, eleven, twelve, you don your armor with ease and slip into the pretense of heroism ). Father could not find his footing in this world long enough for him to see his wish fulfilled. If only he weren’t so tactless with words — words, which are ever so eager to betray their deliverer. If only he didn’t fall prey to the sway of emotions. If only, if only, too many if only’s haunt your past. If only you faced the challenge posed by the past from which you run with the same courage you carry to the battlefield, you would not be so far from salvation damaged.

The Hall of the Greats is a future you have yet to explore. Father paved that pathway for you long before you could even comprehend the beauty and the sorrow brought about by life. In lieu of stories of girls clothed in rags and ballgowns who made haste to slip unnoticed before the clock struck midnight, or tales of witches — both of the good variety and the bad variety — who cast spells and hexes upon those who felled them, Father told you the lives of those whose footsteps he intended you to follow. It was a painful cycle of constant reminders, day and night, from the light of the rising sun to the soft gleam of the waning moon, as though he doubted your ability to retain such things  — limitless, this ability seemed, to the eyes of many and to his as well, but he could not risk it, lest you faltered. Before the midnight clouds swallowed all that shone in the sky, he recounted the biography ( almost in its entirety, as you now fall victim to retrospection ) of she whose namesake you bear: Marie Curie, the physicist and chemist who also understood the burden of unending knowledge. You see yourself in her ( or, perhaps, Father had told you so just enough times for you to claim the belief as your own ) and no other mortal could possibly understand your plight. But while she battled sexist coworkers and the threat of radiation from which she would later suffer, you met monsters in combat. Sometimes, you wonder if your contribution would be sufficient to grant you passage to the Hall Father intended you to be a part of. Most of the time, however, you care too much about just getting the job done rather than thinking about what comes after.

↠ palmer [  PAH-mər ]

This, you could not rid yourselves of. On this front, Father had not a choice. The surname long brandished as a banner of pride, the mere utterance of which brought both admiration and envy to the hearts of nearby spectators seemed to sour as the years progressed. It was Father’s fault — the pristine white paper upon which vivid blank ink stains impresses these words on your infallible memory. Father who, in his might and wisdom, became a quick victim to the tempting snatches of emotional vulnerability. He of all people should’ve understood the preponderance of the mind over the heart, but even he acquiesced without so much of a decent fight. He tainted the glory of your family name — a name which could’ve alleviated the burden of the path assigned you by millimeters: mere millimeters could’ve made the most tremendous difference. But you could never bring yourself to despise Father for this, no. It was human nature — idiotic and unwise, but nature nonetheless; and you, in all those moments when curiosity hungered and was satiated, knew that each point in time that devastated history was perpetrated by man — man who succumbs so easily to carnal instincts. Oh, the misery of wisdom: this piece of information with which you rationalized Father’s actions forbade you even the slightest manifestation of anger. For how could fury prevail when knowledge had already given it a justification not to? 

AGE & GENDER:

22 ( b. January 20, 1996 ), cis female

b i r t h   c h a r t 

↠ sun, moon, and ascendant in capricorn

The Fates find enjoyment in their meticulous ways. Perhaps such is the curse of immortality: to seek pleasure in the details insignificant to the mortal eye. The trajectory upon which they set these accursed heroes is a specific path that does not stray, the most minuscule features borne in mind. It was not by chance that the literal thought of Cora was birthed by Athena on the 20th day of January, 1996, just as the harsh sun rose at 6:25 in the morning upon the dying land of our world. Her existence came upon the Earth as a reminder of the perpetual grand ushering of dawn. With her creation came the promise of a new age — whether it is better or worse than that which preceded remains a mystery, so long as the fate of the quest stands upon the edge of a knife. But just as her birth served as a forbearance of the genesis of this brand new age of demigods and heroes, it also stands as evidence of the person Cora has long forged herself to become. To have her birth fall on the very moment the planets aligned with Capricorn seemed almost fateful —  poetic, even, dare I say. She is an apotheosis of her star sign, the very personification of those who fall under the Capricorn category. Pragmatic even in her fantasies and steadfast in her actions, Cora works towards her goals efficiently and effectively. Although not a stranger to haste, she leaves no stone unturned. All her ambitions remain within the scope of achievement — all other tasks beyond the breadth of realism are ignored. Such is Cora’s attitude to all things, even this quest. Although never granted the choice, she still pursues the success of this task because she genuinely believes that the betterment for all remains achievable. It’s a slim chance,  the odds of their victory, but perhaps for once in her life, Cora has opted to take the path of hope; or, perhaps, she just strongly believes in her ability to overturn the course of everything within her control, even the minimal probability of their triumph.

FACECLAIM: 

Zendaya

Maisie Richardson-Sellers

Laura Harrier

BIOGRAPHY:

This can be in any tense, any length, any point of view, and any format, whether that be paragraph, bullets, or something else more creative. Please be sure to touch on how your character found out they were a demigod, as well as their lives at Camp Half-Blood/Camp Jupiter up until the quest.

FATAL FLAW/DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:

The skeletons’ “labels” are our ideas of defining characteristics, and in most cases, fatal/tragic flaws for these heroes, translated into either Latin or Greek. Here, we would like you to expand on what this means to you, as well as how you can see this characteristic defining them or ultimately being their downfall.

EXTRAS:

p e r s o n a l i t y

( + ) brilliant —

( − ) arrogant —

( + ) subtle  —

( − ) detached —

( + ) methodical  —

( − ) inflexible —

( + ) pragmatic —

( − ) repressive —

( +/- ) goal-oriented —

h e a d c a n o n s

when your shadow crosses my door,

admiration for the Romans

please enter without fear.

unprepared for the journey back

but remember not to ask where i’d been,

cartoons and robbed childhood

or what had fed me in this empty room  —

let others cheat off of her

curtained with fine webs of silk.

first book ever read was the bell jar

ignore the seethe of all my memories.

no direction in life

come, take my hand.

aware of her flaws, doesn’t change

i am human at your touch.

twisted morality

p o t e n t i a l   p l o t s

i.

ii.

iii.