Return of the RP

Today, I was brought back to my roots. The place where one of my greatest creations was born. About eleven years ago, I went onto a forum for those who loved Square Enix games, or more to the point, it was a fan base for Final Fantasy. There, in the boredom of a Computing class that was really not for me, I started a story in Square Enix Forums’ Creative section.

It was an experiment using the second person where I made the reader the evil character and any sections that involved the antagonist became about what you were doing. Safe to say, it failed miserably. Mainly because second person is so difficult to write believably. In addition, you are telling people what they are doing and no one likes to be told that. However, this is beside the point, I had from this experiment a character that I then carried into the Roleplaying section of the site.

The people I met there helped me craft not only that character, but my skills as a writer. The thing people don’t necessarily get with Roleplay writing, is that although you may come up with the original idea for the narrative, you have no control over the general flow of the story. It is in the hands of all those that wish to participate to help craft and guide the story, not losing sight of possible plot points but everyone writing the story from the perspective of their character. So you would have different avenues, different perspectives, different methods to achieving the story’s aims and many of them were ways that you as the original creator could not have thought up to begin with. It also created intense character dynamics as not only were you learning your own character, but how to write with other people’s as well.

It was with a heavy heart, all those years ago, that I saw that hobby pass away. Firstly I focused on my own writing, and then before I knew it life had taken over. In addition, many of my writing friends fell to the wayside, their own lives taking them away from the realms of writing and creativity, the dreams of the characters they created falling into the abyss of ‘childhood play’. Before I knew it, I was very close to the only Roleplayer from that period of my life, still writing.

However, recently, there has been a resurrection. With a couple, it has been my writing of these 400 words and the story of Creativity where I revived some characters long thought dead to their creators. Others, had been focusing on their own works, believing the same as I that the passion for writing had perished in the hearts of the others.

So, tonight, on a site I thought had long since died, but kept alive by a good friend of mine in the hopes that we would all one day return, I gave my character, Ranger, back to the lands of nostalgia and threw him into the vortex for a new portal entrance into a brand new roleplay.

And to be honest with you all, it felt good to write with him in a manner that didn’t need to have a devised plot or direction. It felt good, to play once more.

 

(PS – Yes, I know this reeks of a filler, however, I felt that it needed to be said. For any interested in reading or even joining in with the fun. Go to http://z11.invisionfree.com/Mao/index.php?act=idx

Random scene

A man stood in the corner of a room tapping away at a piece of metal that glowed an angry red. He was a burly sort of man and dressed in the overalls that marked him as a blacksmith. His black hair was curly and hung down to his shoulders where it seemed to almost merge with his bushy beard and mustache. He inspected his handiwork and then tapped a few more times on the outer edges, moulding it to his design.

Lifting a pair of tongues, he gently, almost reverently, placed them about the metal and then committed it to the flames of the nearby fire. The heat of which caused sweat to bead the blacksmith’s forehead and run down his arms. The flames lapped hungrily at the metal, renewing the glow of what looked to be the makings of a horse’s head and reluctantly relinquished it back to the blacksmith who raised it once more out of the furnace and down onto his metal table where he took up a slightly larger hammer than before and began work once more.

His brow was furrowed as he focused in on his labour, his dark eyes critically inspecting his handiwork with each stroke of his hammer. The clang of tool on material was rhythmic, steady, dedicated, each indicating a level of purpose to his craft.

After turning back to the fires once more, he readjusted the grip of the tongues on the metal and then returned to his desk. He picked up the smaller hammer once more and lightly tapped at a series of thinner strands of metal that stretched away from the main piece. He shaped them, crafted them into semi-cylindrical stems and then mulled over what to do next.

He moved to the higher stems and then tapped at them, creating a small bend in their lines and rounded off the end. Looking once more at the whole piece, he nodded to himself and then picked it up once more in his tongues. He carried it to another corner that housed a basin of could water and doused the metal in its cold depths. Steam exploded upwards into his face, mingling with the bristles of his beard and he smiled at what he created as he lifted it free of the basin.

He carried it, almost reverently back to his desk and stood it on the stout lower stems and stepped back. He gazed at the horse rearing on its hind legs in grey steel and smiled. Marcus, a metal painter, would be round the next day to colour it to her liking. His smile spread to a grin as he knew she would love her tenth birthday present, once the finishing touches were done…

The 26 Versus the 400

The problem with forcing 400 words a day is that there are going to be some days where my mind will rebel against making any kind of nonsensical sense let alone sense. Metaphors will dry up to be more parched and cracked than a desert plateau. Similes will all look similar and then there is the not-so-graphic detail. Well at least we can rely on good old stream writing to help us in the endeavor to keep to the task. Like the Captain facing down his small troop of twenty-six men who are war torn and tired. Many have taken a battering, being written and then crudely scratched out or even wiped completely. An onlooker may wonder what such a Captain would say. I bet it would be Capital. I can imagine that he would gaze down at the lower class of troop with a stern expression to mask his own fear and weariness, for those in command can never show how lost they truly are. He’d look along the line, each in their pupil pinned eyes and address them individually. For he was a true leader who knew his men well.

Amadeus, to the far left, always the first to charge into battle and know that he was already calculating his next move.

Berty, had that distant look about him, dreaming of the Bassett sweets that he left on the dresser.

Carmine, racer in peace time, was deconstructing a cycle and rebuilding it in his mind, ready for when he got home.

Dave was missing his wife Doris.

Eve was one of the few girls in his squad, feistier than any of the other troops.

Frank was great to talk to over a cold beer.

Grant was whittling away at a twig, molding it into something new to take home.

Hugh had wanted to become an actor before he came to war.

Iris, their healer, was preparing her poultices and re-checking her stocks, knowing that there was still lots to do.

Jack swigged at a hip flask.

Kieran was on edge and the Captain knew that he would be the one to keep everyone elses spirits up.

Liam was always smiling, even in the face of imminent death.

Molly mothered the rest of the squad. The academy just couldn’t drill it out of her, however they did give her a massive shield to protect her comrades with and a huge club to bash the heads of their foes in.

Nigel, Olivier, Paul and Quentin were quadruplets, formed the center formed the center of their shield wall as they always seemed to think  the same thing at the same time.

Rupert, the Captain knew, kept a bear in his bur-gen, but he was the best bow sniper around.

Sammy, their chef, had left a will with HQ that his pots would be sent home to his son.

Timmy, the Captain smiled and repeated the name in his head with a silly voice, elongating the word.

Urma had yet again missed a spot of rust on her armour.

Vincent always managed to keep most of himself shrouded in darkness, which made him a fantastic scout.

William was forever getting lost.

Xena hated travelling.

Yamcha was a close-quarter specialist

And finally, Zack, devout as ever, would have prayed fifteen times before the order to march would be given.

The Captain smiled broadly, “Be at ease men,” he said. “Look about ye, for don’t ye see, our work. Tis already done.”