FunstuffofDoom

I've spent a good deal of time working in child care, so I might be able to give you some insight in writing younger, or less experienced characters.

Toddlers, children, pre-teens, and teenagers are all quite capable of forming complex thoughts. They are just as dark and twisty, to use your own term, as an adult is. Perhaps moreso, because they are less willing to pull punches. The biggest difference between an adult and a child is the scope of their universe. A toddler's world is their immediate house, and the interactions between themselves and their parents. As they age, they add more authority figures, they add friends, 'enemies', and a growing sense of consequence and responsibility. A child has a few friends, a teacher, some minor possessions to look out for, and perhaps a world that extends to the classroom. A pre-teen has an entire school, numerous chores, many possessions, complex social structures that are entirely removed from 'the real world', and a world that extends to whatever town or city they live in. A teenager has all of that, and a body full of hormones.

Experience, I have a harder time writing. I tend to dodge that bullet by creating characters who have already been doing whatever it is they do for some time. Still, it's not much different, I think. Instead of having a smaller world, a less experienced character sees fewer interactions and connections than a more experienced one.

I've never had the problem of writing something that goes where it shouldn't. However, I've a few tastes that go off the beaten path, so take my opinion with a grain of salt.

I have written things I've later realized simply aren't suitable for showing others. What do I do with them? I keep them. They stay in some old corner of digital space until I happen back upon them, read through them, and put them back. If your story ends up as something like this, don't worry. It isn't a bad thing. But write it first, and see.

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____________ is a mutant. Their powers came out one day when his wife/GF/sister/brother/parents were killed. ____________ now uses their powers to avenge their murdered______________ .


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As far as the style choice goes, the schtick you're seeing is the old trope of "Deep, brooding soul with dark and troubled past seeks redemption through good deeds for the mistakes he's made in the past. Which he's really, really sorry about now. Really." Most players who opt for the "dark past" motif either assumed the character avoided being caught and lives secretly with the guilt (again, brooding) or that he lives as an outcast because of it. I can fault them for being unoriginal, but not for their effort. A lot of people think violence is the only way to add a serious note to their characters.

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It isn't the violence that bothers me about the trope, either. Violence in and of itself can be played for a wide variety of emotions. What bothers me, is apparently how little it takes some people to become the local Friendly Neighborhood Mysterious Protector in Black. Angst and remorse are valid emotions, but they need to be proportional to what causes them. Angel, of Buffy fame, spent a good century killing people in as many brutal and insane ways as he could. His feelings on the matter are justified. Billy Blaster, who accidentally killed his best friend when his powers suddenly manifested, and so now fights for truth, revenge, and to honor that friend's memory? He's doing to mystique what Caligula did to that dog. He is [censored] drama.

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Yeah... but I already figured that part out.

I'm trying to figure out a Story-based way for explaining Training Origins, Invention Origins, and Invention Sets. The rest all have individual titles and in-game descriptions.

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Invention enhancements and Invention sets are just that: inventions. Things you have somehow cobbled together to improve your powers. This could be anything from modifying the weight of your sword so it's balanced, and thus swings better, or some high-tech gauntlet-thing that makes your energy blasts more forceful. Sets and bonuses, could, perhaps, be explained as synergy between your inventions.

Grey speaks the truth. For every unpunished accidental murder, there exists a mstically bound demon girl who was forced to do evil by the Circle of Thorns, even though she wasn't really evil, and now she's out to show the world she's a good person.

Laugh at it, ignore it, move on.

Fascinating.

I've never been much of a person for half-evils or "I'm that one member of my race who's secretly a good guy." It was an overly common cliche years ago when I played EverQuest, and Drizzt Do'Urden hasn't helped matters any. Damn white-haired pretty boy that he is.

On the other hand, though, I'm not especially enamored with caricatures. They aren't realistic, and they certainly aren't ever going to succeed in taking over the world; they're basically too evil for it, and any practicality takes back seat to any puppy kicking.

So, I realize it's a bit of a line to straddle, but when I load up City of Villains, I try to make villains that are villains. Evil, undoubtedly, and I make no apologies for that. For me, the greatest villains are the ones who are entirely evil, but are sympathetic anyways.

Take yer time, sir. We'll wait patiently.

Pre-congratulations on graduating.

"There are characters being written out... in the sand."
((And, for some reason, I can not find the original post pointing this out.))

Noble watched the pattern for a bit, and then nodded.

"It's the same set of characters, repeated. 'Twould appear they are in the same language as these runes present, though I couldn't say for certain. I can read neither. I see several characters present, as on the rings... ah. This may be the solution."

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I didn’t know that someday I would lose them all.

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...

I have nothing to say to this... but I'm going to heavily imply that your back might run into my stabbing knife many, many times if you shaft this little girl.

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"The" is his first.

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There is a precedent. Skull the Troll, of PVP Online, possesses the middle name "the", which is short for Theodore.

That wasn't a Gambit. That was pretty darn close to a Roulette.

Well done.

Intriguing...

I don't typically refer to Reds, Yellows, Purples, or Oranges as anything other than 'ideas'. Literal inspiration, if you will.

Blues, Greens, and Awakens, however, all get thier own term.

Blues are inhalors, which help improve breathing over a short period of time.

Greens are typically nanobots, or some other throwaway healing device.

Awakens are resuscitation kits.

((Kasoh, I'm not helping much with the riddles and jazz because they're absolute Greek to me. Noble's a fairly intelligent man, but his creator is suffering a bit.))

Noble looked at the rings, and sighed. "This is beyond my area of expertise. Perhaps your riddles and items have something to do with all of this. The answer to the combination isn't 'ant', perchance?"

He gazed off, for a moment, and then lowered his eyes to the ground, in time to see something move.

"Did you see that?" He asked without looking. Something was writing characters in the sand.

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I wish I could get a couple of my toons after the dude. People like him don't deserve to be moving around. I don't mean they should die.


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Mission Creator? 'Twouldn't be so hard after all, hmmm?

There were four of them. Three men in flack jackets, and a fourth in some kind of armor. And they were pointing at me. Probably not good. In fact, I’d say that the odds of a near-naked man surviving an attack by three men armed with automatic weapons and whatever that armor could do were astronomically bad. But my mind surprised me.

It began cataloguing data. Things I wasn’t sure how I would know, but I knew. It noticed that the three men in flack jackets were coming at me with batons, which meant they were inclined to leave me alive. It noted the angles they were approaching from, and how best to disable them. It noted the armor the fourth man was wearing, and that he was hanging back. It sent directions to my muscles, and I was quite prepared for them when the finally circled around me. One in front, one slightly behind each shoulder. All of them, as far as I could tell, had their batons held in front of them.

The one in front of me spoke. “Give it up, meat, and we won’t beat your sorry [censored] into the pavement.” His words were meant to intimidate me. He gave me a slight nudge with his baton, and that was the opening I needed.

I moved with the push, and staggered back a bit. For all intents and purposes, this appeared to be a claim for balance, because I was too weak to stand. It wasn’t. My balance was perfect. It was a claim for space. The stagger dropped me a step away from the man in front of me- a step he’d have to take if he wanted to hit me. It also caused my left leg to be placed a pace or so in front of my right leg. Initially a rather awkward position to be sure, but to a person with some training, it was a twitch and a movement away from a side kick, sans the telegraphing the usually accompanies the kick.

The poor man on my left probably never knew what hit him. He crumpled.

The man in front of me was my next target. He came at me with an overhand chop of his baton, which never actually translated into a strike because I caught his elbow as he was stepping forwards. A twist broke his elbow, and a shove threw him into the third man. It wouldn’t remove him from the fight, but it would occupy him for several seconds. I turned to look at the armor and –Move!– discarded the notion to hurl myself aside. A bolt of energy lanced past where I’d been standing. I looked up to see the armored man gather more energy for a similar strike. Bad.

I rolled to my feet, and jumped aside of a second blast, this time having the foresight to land in a roll, and thus continue moving as soon as I hit the ground. The man was charging a third blast, and I was sprinting at him, full speed.

Ten paces.

Would I make it?

Five paces.

Almost charged…
Three paces.

My body reacted for me, again. My legs twisted and spun. I flung myself into the air in a convoluted horizontal spin, I think. I’m not entirely sure what the movement looked like, but the blast of energy missed, by centimeters, and my feet connected with the man’s faceplate.

Glass crinkled, and the helmet fell off the man’s head. He looked a bit dazed for a second, and then seemed to realize he wasn’t wearing his helmet. Blood drained from his face. “Oh, please, God. Tell me you didn’t…”

Energy built up around his body, and exploded. I remember looking up from down the street, and seeing nothing but a crater where the man had been.

And then I blacked out.

The man wasn’t always strapped down to a table. Sometimes he was incased in a large tube. Others, he was suspended in a whirlwind of various energies and particles. Frequently, he was restrained in some futuristic device never before conceived of. Today, however, he was strapped down to a table.

It mattered little to the man. He wasn’t broken. He was past breaking. He didn’t move, he was carried. He was restrained while on machines to keep him on the device in the throes of agony, not because the scientists worried about an escape attempt. Guards didn’t even bother to feed him. Enough nutrients to keep his body regenerating were pumped in via IV.

The man wasn’t always strapped down to a table, but today he was. Typically, this meant he was going to subjected to a variety of serums, radiation, and whatever the scientists could do with portable equipment.

“We have a surprise for you today, Vitale.” The Lead Scientist said as he entered the room. He frequently talked to the man, even though the man has ceased reacting to external stimuli some time ago. The scientist held up a single syringe. “We think this one’s the one. If it works, it’ll all be over.”

The syringe was inserted. The liquid inside was pumped into the man’s body. There was no reaction. The scientist sighed. “Take him back to his cell.”

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Finding a person to talk to was harder than I would have thought. Wherever I was, the locals had developed no real interest in assisting a naked, blue man. Of course, I appeared to be in a slum of some sort, and so most of the people I encountered were in no position to lend assistance had they the desire to do so.

Eventually, though, I did encounter a man possessing, perhaps, and ancestor of Samaritan heritage, for he leant me his coat and answered my questions as best he could.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t answer many of them. I was in Paragon City, on the coast of Rhode Island. Specifically, I was in a section commonly referred to as ‘Kings Row’, due to the number of local factories for King Garment Works. But, he couldn’t tell me anything about myself other than the fact that I appeared ‘super’. He recommended I visit the City Hall in Atlas Park, a district some distance away, as it had plenty of resources for helping younger heroes. He also suggested I find some pants before I enter the building. I thanked him for the information and the coat, and headed on my way.

It was at this moment I met them. I had no idea who they were at the time, of course, but that bothered them not at all.

“There he is! Get him!”

He moved. Weaving, because his legs couldn’t properly support him. Stumbling, bashing into walls. One arm desperately clutched passing objects for balance, while the other swung a glowing torrent of energy with all the grace and subtlety of a baseball bat at any of the laboratory technicians foolish enough to get close.

Eventually, though time meant nothing to him, antiseptic tiles and sterile white gave way to aged concrete and nighttime street lamps. Hallways with doors became streets with parking meters. Windows into lab rooms became entrances to apartment buildings. Men in lab coats and surgical masks became the odd pedestrian, who would take one look at the bloodied, naked man, staggering down the street like a life-long drunkard, and suddenly realize they had a pressing appointment somewhere else.

The man kept moving. His body healed faster than anyone he knew, or knew of. It would continue to move. But his mind did not. There were no thoughts. All that could be considered sentience had receded into a corner, and was doing its level best to not exist under any circumstances. The man was operating on instinct, pure and bestial. But even that wore out. The body would never tire, but the mind was quite fallible. And so instinct threw the man into the safest place it could find before it, too, receded. And then, the man collapsed.

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For those who have never awoken in a state of complete disorientation, I will say now that it one of the worst experiences the normal human being can expect to live through. And I have the right to say this with complete confidence, because when I awoke, I knew absolutely nothing about myself, where I was, or why I was there. I awoke to a good deal of ache spread throughout my body, which surprised me on some level, but I couldn’t say why.

As I shook off the stupor of sleeping –no, call it what it is. I shook off the stupor of awaking from deep unconsciousness, and began to take in my surroundings. I was in an alleyway. Brick walls surrounded by the detritus of hard living. Crushed cans, corrugated cardboard, rusted pipes protruding from walls. Newspaper, as battered and dirt-ridden as I was, lay crumpled about. Some of it lay near me, and by the smell, it had been used, once upon a time, to wipe. I decided movement was in order. And that brought me to focusing on my body.

I was naked, which didn’t seem so much a surprise considering my current location, but my skin was a dull blue. Not ‘So-white-it-looks-blue-under-certain-conditions’. Blue. Like the sky, during a thunderstorm. And it shouldn’t have been.

Too, I was bald. Not just along my head, which I felt to ensure I was, indeed, hairless, but also my eyebrows, my face, my chest, arms, back, and even my legs were entirely clear of hair.

What in the world had happened to me?

I would find out. But first, I needed to move.

My body uncurled. My knees, which had been pulled to my chest, straightened out. My arms, clenched against each other and my chest, braced themselves against the ground. My spine flexed, and I rolled onto my knees. That produced no discernable ill effects save a slight nausea, so I rose to a knee, and then to my feet. The nausea immediately expanded at geometric rates, and I managed to support myself against a wall as dry heaves hit.

When I was done, I decided to try movement again. The situation I was in was full of questions, which could only be answered by interaction with other people. And so I took a step. Nausea attempted to strike again, but it was manageable, and so I took another. Out of the alley I walked, though I admit, it lacked any semblance of grace. Onto a street. I could see no one around me, so I picked a direction, and I walked.

Eventually, I would run into someone.

((*Muffled snicker* Read this.))

"These clues mean anything to you?"

Noble scanned the lines written down. It was... indecipherable. He shook his head. "No, but 'twould seem that it will become more apparent as time goes on, yes?"

Valley of Fallen Angels

Noble Intent took an immediate step or three to the side. Teleporting somewhere had the nasty effect of leaving a person exposed, and people tended to notice it.

Especially when said teleportees landed in places of spiritual or religious importance, as the runed pillars in front of him might indicate.

"Have you any idea what we might find here?" He asked his companion.

((I is returned! Whoo-berries!))

As Ceus finished sending out her message, Noble Intent approached her.

“Planning on leaving? For… ah. A dig, yes? A clue to the artifacts we must recover. Lady, ‘twould be remiss of me to let you leave alone. Allow me to accompany you.”

You can use my sig whenever you want.

'Course, you'll need her permission if you want to publish any of this.

((Forgive me. Is there a problem with sailboat racing?

I'm not having any trouble with the Jager accent, though I'm curious if he actually speaks german or not.))

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I'm focussing on the tower confrontation because it feels like this huge climactic event, but there really isn't any climax. You could write a whole short story just about the raid on the tower and the "duel of minds" (shades of Vizzini!) that ended in a stalemate and the first sliver of doubt in the minds of the worlds mightiest combatants. I know I'd enthusiastically consume it.


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I suppose I can understand your feelings here. I'll even entertain the idea that I'm a rather flawed reader; I'm entirely willing, and frequently do, read through several hundred pages of text, or even entire books, because I enjoy one scene, or a paragraph. One book on my shelf stayed there for years because of three words. I kid you not.

So, take it with a grain of salt when I say that I enjoyed the Tower confrontation not as a climax, because it wasn't one. It simply didn't have the build up and the necessary emotion to be a climax. It was a glorified prologue. It serves the purpose of introducing two charaters to each other, and comparing their relative views. The fact that a confrontation, which could have been a climax under different circumstances, is treated in a rather off-handed manner is all the more engrossing to me, because if something that could have been filled with emotion is given very little, it will draw attention, and thus significance to the moments where emotion is actually displayed. That's the foundation of good drama, yes?

Samuel, I'm afraid I can't give you much more than support on your writing. I'm very instinctual about my own, so my ability to pass on technique is nill. I will say, though, that good work has a feel to it. You have more than vocabulary, sir. You have rhythm, and less of a simplicity as a simple elegance. What you should do, I think, is write more.