Mm. Writing.

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 23:49:07 GMT

Moved to: http://gregoryyates.blogsome.com

Enjoy!

Whoa, that time went by.

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 20:01:27 GMT

It's been quite a long time since my last update, but weirdly, not a lot has changed. I've been doing a lot, sure, but there actually haven't been that many changes in my life worth writing about - which is weird, because I'm using to everything being replaced (friends, commitments, etc.) on the flip of a coin. I think I like it, too.

Cyanide Eyes (my band) are kicking off after our first few gigs. We played the Irish Centre on the 27th March - it seems a loooong time ago now - which was entirely kickass, not to mention fucking rewarding as a musician. We got on pretty late, after The Last Bullets (The Last Ballet) and When Autumn Falls (When Autumn Fails), which was a blow, but we managed to pull it back veeery quickly. Everyone loved us, and to be fair, I think we did thoroughly kerb stomp the other two bands.

Why?

According to a girl I know, we 'care about our music'. That's not as pretentious as it sounds; I think what she meant was that, because we are such perfectionists with every chord and beat we produce (that's no small amount due to me) we are genuinely sensitive to the way we're sounding. In a way, we're not there to please the crowd, though we always do; we're there to please ourselves, and prove we can play it just as hard. Which means that we actually enjoy our gigs, if anything, for the stage antics. ^^

The recent gig at the Way Inn was pretty similar, save for the fact that there were very few people to see us. We, errr, don't have much of a fanbase in Sutton Coldfield, to say the least - but we got a load of indie kids jumping around, which was... interesting.

Peace out.

2nd place. Gah.

Sat, 22 Mar 2008 12:35:16 GMT

So, yeah, me and Simon came second place in that competition - which isn't inherently bad, you understand, what with the fact that we spanked a good many teams in the process of reaching the final. But there's still that gnawing sense of loss that we didn't quite clinch it and come away with the prize title. 'Quite' is pretty much the key word there, as two out of the five judges approached me after the competition and said something along the lines of: "It was too close for a unanimous decision, so we had to have a vote. We voted for you, but there were three for the girls from Wolverhampton."

BAWWWWWWW.

Feh, maybe next time. I was mightily impressed with the way the girls managed to steer the title away from our comfort zone. They took "This House believes that all empires are bad." and put an emphasis on the 'all' in the sentence, which was a masterful stroke. Logically, we then had to argue that all empires are bad, instead of just saying that the empire as a construct/concept is what we would call 'bad' - which we did, with gusto, but it stopped us from bringing out some of our more brutal points.

Their main downfall as a team, though, regarding the question, was to bring Rome into the equation. They went down the predicted route of mimicking the Monty Python sketch of "Besides sanitation, roads, clothing... etc... what have the Romans ever done for us?", which of course, me and Simon pounced on quickly. The Romans are a terrible example for highlighting a 'good' empire, what with the slavery, the crucifixion, the continuous wars and suchlike.

It was a nice evening, though. ^^

I'm off.

Watashi wa densha de tomodachi to Birmingham ni ikimasu.

Speech written!

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 23:17:51 GMT

“All empires are bad.”

Remember that it's designed to be read out aloud - so it's soaked in rhetoric. Also remember that I don't neccassarily agree with my argument; the Midlands institute just give us the topic and tell us whether we're opposing or proposing. I actually love empires. ^^

Any comments appreciated. The final to the competition is on Wednesday, so I can make some modifications before then.

Enjoy. : )

~

Ladies and gentlemen, members of the adjudicating panel, honourable opponents – and of course, the timekeeper.

“The reason why the sun never sets on the British Empire is because God doesn't trust the British in dark.”

When I think of empires, I expect quite a different image comes to my mind, and indeed the author of that quote, than it may do so for most. When I think of Rome, I don't see the heroic legions and civilisation; I see the destruction of the city at the hands of the slaves and barbarians they oppressed. I don't see the glorious British Empire bringing civilisation to the savages; I see Indonesian concentration camps, and the death of democracy. In short, ladies and gentlemen, I see empires for what they are, rather than what they represent, and hope to persuade you to do the same.

First, I'll define the 'empire' that me and my partner, Simon, will be discussing today. The word stems from the Latin imperium, literally meaning 'absolute sovereignty' – and the heritage dictionary also adds the connotations of 'conquest'. This is clear. I anticipate that our opponents will try to bring a degree of ambiguity to the motion tonight, but I urge you not to accept this. An empire is an autocratic system of absolute control, fuelled by conquest.

And without exception, all 116 empires of the past have fallen. Two remain in our world today – they would be the British and French commonwealths – and they are rapidly dissipating. Why? An empire, ultimately, relies on three fundamental factors: conquest, wealth and submission, each of them as decaying and cancerous as the larvae that eat away at the tree trunk. You will notice that I will back up each of my assertions with historical examples, both ancient and recent. This is because the past agrees with this proposal. It would be ridiculous to say otherwise; the majority of empires in the past have certainly been what we would call 'bad'.

So, let's explore why. As I've said, conquest is necessary for an empire; when your population is getting to big, you need to look to other options – and with the prospect of expansive, resource-rich territories just within your grasp, it's hard to resist it. There are two chief ways of going about it: the “Let's talk it over.” diplomatic approach, and the traditional “Might is right” warlike strategy. Neither of which spells anything but trouble for the victim nation. Roman diplomatic conquest resulted in weaker countries crippled by the hefty tributes the empire lay upon them. Their people would starve to increase the wealth of a bloated nation across the seas. And if they wouldn't pay up?

Invasion. When negotiations break down, swords are drawn. When Briton refused to bow to Roman rule, the might of the legions was unleashed, and thousands of rebels under Boudicca's banner slaughtered. In world war two, Nazi Germany was responsible for the violent invasion of Poland and Czechoslovakia – and we're still feeling the effects of Soviet control over the east. And for what? Justified ends? No! Selfish ends! War is not what man is built for, ladies and gentlemen, and if conquest is a key factor in imperium, how can we possibly regard it as anything but a 'bad thing'?

It doesn't stop there. An empire needs its wealth to sustain the armies I have mentioned. Tribute from allied states fills this quota, in part, but it craves more, and that 'more' is totally abhorrent. Slavery, ladies and gentlemen. The disgusting practice of supplicating another human being – and, ironically, the only subject where east and west have been in agreement. The British and Islamic empires both relied on the slavery that the trans-Saharan, Red Sea and Indian Ocean commerces offered. Regardless of how we gloss over this particular episode of our world's history, the testimonies of those who suffered under the empires rings true. Islamic slaves were castrated and forced to observe Muslim faith practices. British slaves in Commonwealth Sudan were forced to fight the wars of the British Empire, badly trained and equipped. Needless to say, they died en masse – though the European commanders would deny this.

Though attitudes towards slavery have changed since those times, much of the wealth we enjoy in Britain nowadays is built from the sweat of slaves – and that is something we will always have to accept as a country. A poisoned legacy. Regardless of how our opponents dress up empires, when they fail, which they all inevitable do, they leave behind them nothing but filth and the refuse of colonisation.

We obviously have no control over the past. We can apologise for it, but we can't change anything... not that we could have really changed the outcome in any way if we were there. An empire, traditionally, neither requests nor consents the mandate of the populous for its actions. In short: we don't get a say. If you were outraged at Gordon Brown's 'election that never was', then an empire is most definitely not for you. In an empire, you don't get a say. Your opinion is not necessary: only your acceptance. And if you don't accept, you are silenced. In Soviet Russia, merely voicing dissent during the Stalin administration was liable for questioning, and even torture by the KGB. Any further, and it was deportation to a hard labour camp or even execution. Is it justified that an empire relies on these means? Can this be anything but 'bad'?

As the iconic anarchist 'V' from Alan Moore's graphic novel 'V for Vendetta' rightly said: “People should not fear their government; the government should fear their people.”. And I happen to agree. We pride ourselves on being a democracy in our country, so it would be totally hypocritical for us, and even more so for our opponents, to advocate in any way the way in which an empire conducts itself.

So, why is there even a debate here? From everything I've just highlighted, it would seem that empires are unanimously 'bad', to understate. He reason for anything contrary comes from these fond views of the past that are entirely untrue, and are totally misleading.

For instance, I'm quite sure our opponents will probably try to pass off some of the wars started by empires with the excuse somehow 'protecting' smaller countries. Quite unlikely; the only situation in which an empire would intervene with a conflict would be to defend its own assets and interests. Again, look at Rome. The second cracks started to show in their own cities, the protectorates were left to fend for themselves. Empires use, and abuse the states they have control over, and always will.

I'm sure our opponents will try and validate the colonisation of empires with the excuse of the spreading of wealth, and the bringing of riches to a land otherwise poor. This couldn't actually be any further from the truth. I'll tell you why, using the words of a great man, Desdmon Tutu:

“When the missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land. They said 'Let us pray', and when we opened our eyes, we had the Bible and they had the land.”

I could continue, ladies and gentlemen, but there is no need. I'd like to leave you with some simple words, written by a poet a long time ago: quel custode ipsum custodes? Who watches the watchmen? The empire, no matter how you protest against its atrocities, is calling the shots. It is answerable only to itself, and I have shown you tonight that it has a lot to answer for.

Ladies and gentlemen, I propose.

Oh, and...

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 20:00:58 GMT

Check out my band's new myspace - especially if you're in or around the Birmingham area, because we're playing a gig on the 27th of March, at the Irish Club in Digbeth. It's set to be awesome, so GO GO GO.

Ron may be gone but what about anon?

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 17:22:14 GMT

Yeah, we stuck it to the $cifags pretty hard yesterday, at the second of the 'Anonymous' protests. I got there around midday, not wanting to be the first around again (awkward shuffling is awkward) and found a substantially larger crowd that I could have anticipated. Considering that there was, at most, fifty people at the demonstration in February, the crowd of 100+ was certainly quite hefty - though, there were remarkably few faces I recognised. Well, masks, anyway.

I can only think that many of the anonfags from the February protest lost gusto for the cause. I can't honestly blame them; the whole day was a little lacklustre, in a sense. There was a lot more shouting and waving of signs, and a great deal of enthusiasm, but there was still a depressing air about the day. I can attribute it to a few things:

. It was raining. This doesn't sound like a lot, but I get that sense that it seriously matters when it comes to a protest; as with anything in British life, nobody gives a crap if it's raining. The flyers got wet, the people we were trying to appeal to started hurrying past to stay dry, and the guys who turned up to protest started to leave. Luckily, this was only in the latter stages of the day, but still: feh.

. Many of those who turned up aren't neccassarily those who are particularly set against the Church of $cientology, but those who are particularly for the protests. Five members of the public who I remember speaking to in February actually turned up in masks to join in this time round, which is a double edged sword. More numbers is always wonderful, but the problem lies in the fact that they've not really done their research. Yelling: "Scientology kills!" and "Scientology is evil!" isn't really helpful. At all. They're not morally neutral statements, so we can't level them at the organisation.

The best shouts were phrases like: "Lisa McPherson - why is she dead?" and "Religion is free - Scientology isn't!". These can both be backed up with objective evidence, and appear less... fanatical. We're trying to mimick a faceless majority here, and adding emotive statements to the issue isn't helpful.

. The 'party' theme, whilst on paper seemed like a good idea, was annoyingly counter-productive. There was thankfully very little of it in the Birmingham protest, but the moments where it did rise to the surface - someone decided to put party music on an amplifier - were irritating. It's doing nothing to the Scientologists, who were barely even present on the day, and it was just making the public either point and laugh or walk away awkwardly - neither of which are reactions that are likely to make them take our point of view seriously.

The argument of 'it'll make the protest more fun' is pretty fucking stupid, too. We're not there to have fun. If we're there to stand for six hours in the cold, without a break, handing out leaflets and speaking with random members of the public about the Co$, then so be it. I don't mind. I'm not there for a happy day out; I'm there to educate the public on a serious matter. Loudspeakers, megaphones, music, cake and party hats just get in the way of that.

~

So, yeah. Not the best of protests. But, I still got enough of the message I personally supported across, though. I can't even begin to count the number of everyday people walking on the streets of Birmingham who are now predisposed against the cult because of me and my friends, and all other things aside, that's more than enough of a protest for me.

anonfag, reporting out.

And again. ^^

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 22:39:41 GMT

you're quite funny, but your humour is sort of... normal, i think. dfficult to say. you're more loud than witty. i think this is because your life isn't matching up to the wild days you once had, and you need to find a way to make up for this. still, i like being around you.

you're the opposite: witty, but not exactly very fun to be around. never mind!

life must be pretty boring for you, because you keep interfering with things. stop it.

i don't really know you, but i'd like to. you seem really cool. i don't think you like yourself altogether so much, though. not cool.

your sense of humour is similar to mine, I think, but people are likely to take it an entirely different way. you're realising this slowly, and i can tell, but you only have a loose grip on the people you call your friends. i'm not sure what you do in your spare time, because most the people that know you despise you.

i adore you. come to my side of the world, and teach me to speak your language. i guarantee that we'll be the best of friends.

fuck you! could you afford to lose me as a friend? was it worth it?

it's like you have this totally seperate entity that you view as 'yourself', and you make your personal decisions based on this. you have goals in sight, but you enjoy the self-punishment cycle far too much to ever get them. no worries, though, i don't talk to you that much. you serve a purpose.

what the hell! i can't even begin to suss you out. you have some emotional problems, clearly, but i wouldn't know where to start with giving you anything closely resembling advice on them.

man! if i lived a life half as... sophisticated as your, my brain would explode.

you make me laugh every time i see you!

when you speak it sounds like your voice is put on, like a really eccentric drama.

stereotype stereotype stereotype stereotype.

i don't care why you did it, but what you did was possible the only action i'd ever describe as 'unforgiveable'. he never recovered. i think he's amazing, but when the light shines through, you can see the cracks you left in him. i'm glad he never forgave you, because i like to think that right before you died, you regretted that - and you got to take that guilt to your coffin. your only redeeming feature is that you've shown he and i exactly how not to be.

bo-ring.

i act differently when i'm around you, and i like it! it's like having a slightly different life. not in any escapist sense, though; i just like not having to make an effort. plus, we have good old fashioned fun together. woo!

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 20:28:41 GMT

Okay. Part of me being less vicious involves me not saying things that I would normally express to people. I'm going to confess some things that have been on my mind. I'm not going to post any names - some people might read this - but for shits and giggles, I want to see what it looks like on the pages. Should be pretty cathartic. Let's try this:

you re-coloured your hair, but it actually makes you look older.

i think you lie a lot, but i enjoy telling myself that you're not, because i love getting caught up in your enthusiasm.

you're like me, but you don't know how to deal with people. enjoy having no friends, you misguided fuck.

you're so cool! that once a week i see you makes me smile, a lot. you're also really pretty, in the sense that you're actually 'pretty', not neccassarily 'hawt', which is better. you're more feminine than pretty much every girl in that room, and i would go out with you in a heartbeat if you'd give me any sign that you felt the same way about me. you do such interesting things in your spare time, and you're so creative. meet up with me! i'll woo you!

i love your accent so much. when you talk, i'm less concerned with the words themselves than how you say them. your voice is almost musical!

at first you seemed as cool as the person two posts up, but little by little i'm finding out that you're nowhere near as awesome as i thought you were - but still more awesome than you think you are.

you're my best friend. i hope you decide what you want from life. don't waste it!

you're also my best friend. you need to draw more.

you're awkward sometimes, and i think that you have some issues to resolve, but you're also my best friend and that's part of the deal, man.

you're also my best friend. sometimes i think that other people are bad for you.

yeah, you're hot, and pretty interesting - but the fact that people tell you this makes you vastly overconfident. you're not the life of the party. i hate to admit it, but i'd probably have sex with you to degrade you.

i just lied. i don't hate to admit it.

you are not the authority on everything! you have a stupid life!

i didn't cry at your funeral. sorry.

every time you tell me something about your life, or how you grew up, or something you did years ago, i'm even more proud.

you look like this girl from a film, but you're not as cool as her.

you say awkward things! stop saying awkward things!

we were once really, really good friends, but circumstances are making us go further apart. i could do something about it if i wanted, but it wouldn't work. we'll probably make up one day.

nobody listens when you speak! ahahahaha!

Brr.

Tue, 19 Feb 2008 20:04:18 GMT

Veeeeeeeeeeery cold, very cold indeed. It was -5 last night. : [

I empathise with young Werther (From the epistles by Goethe). I hate being 'just friends'. It's entirely lame if you're actually into the girl, but pretending to only be into them platonically. Each time I see her, I'm less likely to end up with her, but if I stay away from her, chances are I'll be forgotten anyway. Bad situation. Not fun at all.

"I can no longer pray except to her; my imagination beholds no figure but hers."

I feel your pain, Werther. Okay, not quite as drastically. You're in love with her, but I just think this girl is very, very cool.

In other news, I got my first hardback publication! I'll post more about it later, when I'm less pressed for time.

Catching up.

Wed, 13 Feb 2008 19:22:26 GMT

Things I have achieved recently.

. Actually getting to the stage where I have something to show for my band's efforts! Check out the new material, hot off the... err... recording laptop from Cyanide Eyes:

http://boomp3.com/m/2e1cf47f7e12 <--- heavy opening song.
http://boomp3.com/m/4818bcec07e0/recursion <--- softer song.

They're both unnamed. Have a listen and rate them through comments; all criticisms are welcome. The recordings are actually quite rough, being done on a laptop, and mastered on the same laptop. Sure, there were a wealth of amps and preamps, but it's pretty back-to-basics stuff.

. Joining the Anonymous protest on February the 10th. That was immense. I don't care if we weren't accurately representing Anonymous as an organisation (or is that disorganisation) but the work we did in Birmingham was amazing. Hear my voice on www.scratchradio.co.uk (the bit marked 'Scientology Protest'). Really good coverage, and entirely better than the biased crap ITV gave us.

. Reading Goldfish, a comic book by some author I can't remember. Read it. It's brilliant.

Oh!

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 23:03:55 GMT

Oh, and, a picture of Whittaker:

<------- weirdly, I found this dude by googling my own name.

Nick Whittaker. A Mage for the Wanton WoD chronicle. Enjoy, Jessica!

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 23:02:12 GMT

"There ain't no business like show business."

Nicholas Whittaker came to the 'States in 1995, a rising actor and star in the film industry - born of humble beginnings to Sally and James Whittaker, a couple of gentle country folk from Kilkenny, Ireland. To be a star in America required charisma, hard work, and a large amount of luck, but the younger, more innocent Nick had it in spades, and was set to take the place by storm. Of course, he did, but in a very different way, and that's where the tragic story begins.

'Cause Nick Whittaker went and got himself ruined, you see. And like any great actor, he did so spectacularly.

It was the women that did it. Of course, Nick knew that there were certain... perks that went with the fame. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd recieved that kind of attention for his performance on stage; on the contrary, he was a good-looking guy, and with the kind of prestige he was headed for, what girl would turn him down? No, it was this particular breed of women that brought him down. Everyone knows the type: husky voice, silky sweet scent...

...yeah, that type. Once they got Whittaker under their thumb, they could make him do anything. Literally anything, up to and including hard drugs, ridiculous gambling sessions and drunken nights spent abroad - which is all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and loses their career because of it. Which is exactly what happened, after one particularly fierce night spent high in Amsterdam.

"You're off the cast, Whittaker!" the director had screeched in that high pitched shriek of his. "And I'm cancelling your contract! You're a waste of space, you frickin' mick!"

That was it. The dream was over. Nick ran back home, crawled back into the bottle and wasted a year on his mother's sofa, vaguely considering suicide until one night, he decided to make things right. He decided that there was only one thing that could help him, and that was the church. He found God. And like any great actor, he did so spectacularly.

Three years passed, and he was a priest of the Catholic Church. Another year, and Father Nick Whittaker had his own congregation, far out in a farming village. It was a pleasant enough place, far cry as it was from the booming cities of the U.S.A, and seemingly a solid rock of faith to build Nick's worship to God upon. Every week, the old folk would attend Mass, and then shuffle off to whatever it was these sleepy towns did in their spare time.

It was alright for a while. Really, it was. Nick relished the open air, and the free time to reflect on things. But as time went by, little by little, the shepherd realised that his flock had gone astray; whilst they turned up to church on Sundays, their hearts were empty. Devoid of any genuine emotion, or passion. It was as if they were merely empty husks of people, uttering their dead devotions in absence of conviction. They had no faith, and that troubled Whittaker, more than it would trouble any other priest of the Lord. He lost whole nights of sleep, tossing and turning out of fear for his congregation.

When Nicholas stopped sleeping, the killing happened.

There was just one at first: an old lady named Martha. She was found lying prostate in her kitchen, severe burns and lacerations across her body. All the people of the town, not to mention her close friends, were horrified and sickened by the event; who would do such a thing? Such was the effect it had, that the turnout at Nicholas' church that Sunday was the greatest the village had ever seen.

To this day, Nicholas doesn't know if he was responsible for killing Martha. He probably never will. Though, what he is certain of was that her death and the spiritual uplifting of his flock from it, put him on the road towards an enlightenment he had been striving for his whole life. It came in the form of an Awakening, the Supernal manifestation of the faith longing to be freed. On the way home from the funeral of Martha, as Nicholas was driving his car home, a bright white light started to fill his vision, blinding in its intensity. He swerved to try and get away from it, wrenching the vehicle off the road - but it remained, growing and growing until it encompassed all of his vision. Then it spoke, in words that echoed not in his ears but in his mind.

It told him of his destiny. It told him of his duty as a follower of Christ, and of the hardships he was to endure. It told him of the praise the angels gave to his purity, and his faith in the Lord - but most importantly, it told him of his power. He was no longer a servant of the church, and yet neither was he to be a martyr.

He was to be a living, breathing saint, and a testament to all that would follow him.

Nick woke up to a faceful of broken glass and a searing pain in his head. He barely had time to smear his name in blood on the smashed windscreen - now, why did he do that? - before he passed out.

One month, four sessions of life-saving surgery, and fifty-three stitches later, and Whittaker has arrived in ?The City?, ready to make his impact in the way only he can.

And like any actor, he'll do so spectacularly.

Eek.

Thu, 17 Jan 2008 23:27:31 GMT

Whoa. Last night I had a really intense dream. I was with this woman I know, I won't say her name, waking her up from this deep sleep in a really gentle way; I was stroking her hair, saying her name... and there was nothing sexual about it - just a deep feeling of caring. Weird as fuck, considering who she is.

Yeesh.

Eek.

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 17:09:46 GMT

Actually, just before I go...

http://img136.imageshack.us/img136/4488/udsc001cutqt2.jpg

Lincoln is screwed. Once again, a whole quadrant of 'safe' territory has been taken down by the Big Bash. Zeds are unstoppable!

Screw the relief effort. I'm going back to Dunnel Hills. I need the DHPD!

Aaaand, here's an essay!

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 16:51:04 GMT

...well, half:

William Shakespeare’s Othello is praised as being one of the most exciting, and yet intensely moving tragedies of its’ time, gripping the audience from the romantic start to the brutal, shocking end. However, the real beauty of Othello lies in Iago’s deadly dance of treachery; characters like Othello and Cassio are both destroyed by the man, and it’s fair to say that there are few characters that aren’t somehow caught up in his web of deceit – particularly so, with the women in the play. And while the spotlight tends to be on the men in Othello, they have a significant part to play, even though they act within the constraints of the oppressive Venetian society.

These constraints are like shackles, fixing the women in their place and stopping them from ever challenging their husbands. They are portrayed as objects from the very start of the play, as Iago, accompanied by his dull-witted, reluctant lackey Roderigo calls: “Zounds, sir, you’re robbed!” at Brabantio, referring to her as a ‘daughter’ in a with little regard for Desdemona as a person, he refers to alongside the noble’s personal effects (“Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags!”) furthering the idea that in Venetian society, the fairer sex are little more than baggage, to be used as they will. Whether they are ‘owned’ by their fathers, or their husbands, the women are little but Iago makes this clear later on, as he conspires once again with Roderigo to gain him the womanly delights of the “fair warrior” Desdemona, declaring that he would never “drown…for the love of a guinea-hen.” – in other words, showing a complete and utter disregard for love, and for the women that embody it. Even Michael Cassio, who is praised as being a “good gentleman” is prone to this disrespect, as we find him bragging about Bianca in an utterly sexist way in Act 4: “I marry her! What? A customer! I prithee, bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha!”. He essentially rejects spits on Bianca and her seemingly misguided affections, choosing his ‘manly’ reputation over the feelings he almost certainly has for this ‘housewife’.

However, it is the eponymous ‘hero’ of the play that demonstrates the obliteration of independence and individuality of women in Othello, albeit unwittingly. Othello, whilst he is definitely a great general and a man of standing within Venice – we know this, because one would have to be a skilled tactician indeed to be beseeched upon by the Duke for military advice as a mercenary – certainly has a powerful love for his ‘Desdemon’ – but has an even greater love for himself, and his image as the “great captain” and heroic general.

However, the fatal extent to this overblown ego only rises to the surface when they are alone for the first and last time in the story. Marianne L. Novy writes about Othello’s perceptions of his wife:

“Othello’s murder of Desdemona is the epitome of his failure to accept the fact that both of them have what Emilia calls frailties and affections. When he sees her sleeping, his words show appreciation of her beauty as a passive object…but on confronting the awakened woman, who struggles for life and denies his accusations, he becomes enraged.” – Marianne L. Novy, Love’s Argument: Gender Relations in Shakespeare, page 142.

Novy makes some very valid points, here, and there is certainly evidence to back up the idea that Desdemona is little more than just a scratching-post for Othello’s ego, and a fitting heroine for a hero. One could say that she, in the mind of this noble Moor, emulates Hero from Much Ado About Nothing: the pretty, accommodating and most importantly for Othello, submissive woman in the play. He so desperately wants her to be his Hero, that he is willing to deceive himself of her obvious independent streak (“I do perceive here a divided duty… So much I challenge that I may profess/Due to the Moor my lord.”) to have the heroine he desires. So great is his sense of her belonging to him, that when he is reunited with her after the storm in the first Cypress scene, his first words to her are : “O, my fair warrior!”. He doesn’t even say her name, even though she calls his in happiness. This is because Othello isn’t in love with Desdemona; he’s in love with his fair warrior, as he says. The two are very different.

Othello is so deluded that it comes as a terrible shock, as Novy rightly dictates, when he discovers that she is in fact more of a Beatrice – a feisty, defiant woman who won’t simply bow down to men for their merit of masculinity – he is distraught. Her supposed adultery would almost be acceptable to him if she’d just bow down and admit it. This is why the admiration he feels for her as she slumbers (“So sweet was ne’er so fatal.”) rapidly dissipates when she stands up to him: (“O banish me, my lord, but kill me not!… O, Lord, Lord, Lord!”). It’s not the confession he craves; it’s the submission. It’s likely, because of his race, that he has been forced to ‘let men have his knees’ a lot in the past, so his indulgence is dominance, and she is his conduit of that. Again, she is just a means of self-satisfaction for him. She is more masturbation than reciprocal love.

Well, that's it so far, anyway. By the end of it, I'll have cut a great deal of that away. Like pruning, really. But that's the bare bones of what I'm trying to get across in the first half of the essay. My only pet hate is that massive paragraphs. I think they're ugly, hard to read, and they don't get the point across in such a punchy style as to drive it home. Rhetoric really doesn't work when you're carrying on for another five lines.

In any case, it's what gets the grade, so I'll grit my teeth and bear with it.

Any criticisms welcome! I'll get back to you after Japanese.

Ja mata! ^^

Another update gap. Grr.

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 13:36:22 GMT

Yeah, LJ, I have committment issues. I'll post more! I promise!

Actually, not that many things have changed since I last posted. I'm now full of sandwich - salami, melted edam cheese and jalapenos for any who appreciate the wonder of bread-filling-bread combos - and vaguely contemplating doing a 2,000 word essay on Shakespeare's Othello. It's on the topic of women, as opposed to the usual themes of deception, treachery and the like, which makes things harder but infinitely more rewarding when it's all done. Iago, whilst certainly being fucking awesome as a character, is a bit of a one-trick pony when it comes to writing about him.

As to Desdemona... well, her ass is mine. I'll post my destruction of her as a credible character when I'm finished up. Which may be tonight - who knows?

In other news, I'm with another band now, after vaguely trawling through advertisments in music shops and asking around. It's pretty serious, actually; I had to audition, as opposed to just jamming through something, but that went just fine. Mainly because I know the lead guitarist very well, and I've been playing bass guitar for about five years now. The music is mostly metal, with definite influences from Staind, Deftones, KoRn, White Zombie, Il Nino, etc. It's nothing special, and by no means unique, but the songs we have nailed down sound kickass, so that's all cool.

Roleplaying is the same-old-same-old. I'm not writing as much, so consequently I'm not playing as many WoD chat-based games, but I have a nifty V:tR going on the tabletop with my usual group of scoundrels. That's shaping up well.

Peace out~

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCZB3nSoNbU

New comic books, wooooo.

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 19:56:16 GMT

Owchie in the stomach.

I know the feeling. As in, really know; I just ate a whole one of those Hindu 'laddu' cake things and now it is screaming at me: "Noooo, you terrible man, they were for shaaaaring!" and making me feel ever-so-slightly nauseous. But meh, it was worth it. Mmmm, laddu. I love my Hindu friends.

Oh, and, err, thanks to the kind person who corrected my Japanese sentence a bit ago. Much appreciated! ^^

Check out my current Amazon wishlist:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Super-Relax-Cibo-Matto/dp/B000002NCR/ref=sr_1_1/202-0239544-4255069?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1194464375&sr=8-1       <------- Cibo Matto, 'Super Relax EP'. I really want to hear those remixes.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Watchmen-Alan-Moore/dp/1852860243/ref=sr_1_1/202-0239544-4255069?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1194464826&sr=1-1    <------- The Watchmen, by Alan Moore. People keep telling me to read this, so I'll go out on a limb and get a copy. I really loved V for Vendetta, so if it isn't too far off that style, then I'm sure I'll like this in equal measure. No worries, though; on Amazon, it's not pricey enough to make me think twice about it.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sin-City-Hard-Goodbye-Horse/dp/1593072937/ref=sr_1_1/202-0239544-4255069?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1194465048&sr=1-1   <------ Oddly enough, I haven't read The Hard Goodbye yet, even though I've pretty much read every single other Sin City graphic novel, bar The Big Fat Kill and Family Values. I might get the former of those two, but the latter didn't interest me so much. Maybe I'll get it to complete the collection or something; I don't know.

Ja mata. : )

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 22:36:40 GMT

Oooh, long time no update. I've been pretty damn ~~busy since college~~ lazy recently. Sue me!

Lots of stuff happening, though; my birthday came and went at the weekend, leaving me with a few awesome gifts. I got this cute manga book from my elder sister - I'm working on, err, translating the title, so watch this space - as well as a copy of Changeling: the Lost from my parents [I'll wite a mini-review on that when I've read enough of it], and an English-Japanese dictionary from my other female sibling. As for the rest of the relatives... well, their impartations generally consist of Amazon vouchers. Which is cool with me, 'cause I get to order my own presents and suchlike. : )

I have a good £50 to spend on there, so if anyone has any suggestions, go ahead and comment. Currently, my only committment is the Cibo Matto (self titled) album. As in, the really old one - and the one that, in my opinion, really nails down the whole 'Yuka Honda creeping you out and chilling you out simultaneously' trademark that really defines that band. In other words, it's the album with weirdass, almost ethereal song 'Sugar Water' on it. And 'Apple', which I always loved, in a psychotic-go-happy sort of way.

Yeah, Cibo Matto are weird.

College has started again, bringing with it the kind of order and busy timetable I like in my life. Oddly enough, I get more done when I have less free time; it's probably something to do with 'work ethic' or something along those lines. I've gone hardcore with memorising my Japanese characters (Hiragana), and I now know... 40? At least? To be fair, you just add a couple of lines to syllables like 'ka' and you get 'ga', so many of them are quite similar anyway.

Current projects for the Artik!

1. Paint the Mordheim warband.

While I wait for my spanking new Witch Hunters warband to arrive, I'm practicing my painting on my current Mercenaries group. I'll post some pictures if I can, but the colour scheme is pretty simple. For the marksmen, who are armed with handguns, I paint their shirts and sleeves black-and-white, and their trousers dark blue. Gives them the impression of being part of some Nuln artillery college or something along those lines. Either way, they're looking pretty nice. I need to work on some sort of conversion to make them more unique, though.

2. Get a Japanese pen-friend.

Okay, I can't actually speak that much Japanese, but I'm guessing that putting some effort into what I do know with someone who is actually Japanese will help. My teacher is usually too busy for that kind of thing.

3. Write some more of Messiah. Or anything, damnit.

Yeah, as it says. I've been really lazy with my writing recently, and I need to get back to work. Else I'll never finish my novel. Grr.

Anyway, I'm pretty tired now - I just got back from a national debating competition - so I'm going to go get some shuteye. Later all, and peace out. ^^

Dingoes ate my baby!

Thu, 18 Oct 2007 14:53:35 GMT

Heheee. Some kind soul posted all the Mighty Boosh radio show on the interwebs, so I just downloaded them. ^^

I think it's the turn of phrase that makes that show so funny. They missed out some of that kind of giggle in the stand up, and the television series on BBC3, so it's nice to hear the stuff that really makes me laugh again:

"I'm gonna kill you with a brick. Squeeze your head and burst it like a chip."
"Where have you been? Have you spent the last three years in a Chinese pipe?"

It's the way Vince delivers it. : )

In other news, I now have a week's holiday. I'm visiting my uncle for a few days, but after that it's all free time, which I've got a load of stuff planned for. Well, by a 'load of stuff', I mean 'copious TT roleplaying and nerdery' - but that hardly matters in the grand scheme of things. I'll try and set an hour or two aside a day to practice my Hiragana (one of the three Japanese written languages). So far I know, pretty much off by heart:

a, i, e, o, u
ki, ke, ka, ko, ku
tsu, chi, ta, to, te
shi, sa, so, su, se

That's twenty. By the end of the next week or so, I want to double that. Tough task... maybe. I'll see.

Tonight will see the posting of my spanking new Mage: the Awakening character for Macai's game. Until then, ja mata.

Yatta!

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 20:31:41 GMT

Me: Anata no denwa bangoo wa nan-ban desuka?
You: Watashi no denwa bangoo wa zero-ichi-ni-ni-no-roku-san-kyuu-no-ichi-nana-hachi-san

That was me asking for you phone number, and you telling me it in Japanese.

See also:

Leonidas: KORE WA SPARTA DESU!

I <3 Japanese. ^^

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 20:24:33 GMT

Heh. Cool weekend.

Friday night was its' usual tomfoolery of roleplaying and midnight strolling - made fun by the fact that Rob ST'd the second episode of his new WoD game. It's a police chronicle - that is, to say, the majority of we players are police characters - set in an old ghost town that takes inspiration from Silent Hill. Okay, well, a lot of inspiration. In the sense that it it's almost a carbon-copy, in some aspects.

Ah well. It's fun, and besides - who doesn't want to play in Silent Hill? It's creepy as hell, and the comic book series is excellent. Not to mention the games (which I haven't actually played, but plan to at some stage) and the film (which I've seen, and love).

My character's a Tokyo cop named Michi Fujimoto, promoted all the way up as a hostage negotiation specialist, but depressed as hell in his line of work. He's a pretty amiable guy, which is a real contrast to the angry, angry SWAT that form the rest of the party, but he's quite fun to play. He's quiet, which makes a change from most my characters.

I'll keep you posted on Michi.

Saturday was pretty awesome as well. Went to Neil's birthday do, which consisted largely of playing Mario Kart, eating pizza, and watching 300. You know that some of the Arcadians in that film have their TB jabs? Seems like the Greeks were more ahead of their time than we ever realised.

/sigh.

On a final note, I just ordered the two boxed sets for Ghost In The Shell: SAC (here and here) I seriously can't wait for that to arrive. I've seen the first few of the series, and I love it. So many anime writers/artists have tried to get a really dark take on the future, but none have succeeded like Ghost In The Shell.

I'll talk about that some other time, though. For now, ja mata. ^^

Sat, 13 Oct 2007 11:48:54 GMT

Wowie, I haven't updated in a while. As in, actually updated; most the time, I just post my slightly odd WoD characters onto my page here, for easy reference later on and to see how they look. I'd quite like to get back into blogging though, so I think I'll try and update once a day.

Or two days.

Whatever.

The writing front has been pretty quiet. The payment for Secrets of the Surface World came through recently, which was cool. I honestly can't wait for that book to come out. It'll be the first book product in hardback that has my work in it. A milestone, I guess. Something I might remember if I keep at freelancing - but that is a heavy if. Sometimes, I get the feeling that the amount of stress and exertion involved in writing for somebody elses' game really isn't worth the pay.

Then again, seeing my work in print makes it all worthwhile, so I'll just keep quiet about that. ^^

What else is new? Well, me and Macai - when he gets LJ, I'll link him like a bitch - made Theater Of Injustice - an online WoD chat game, based on a TelNet client. I'm the main ST for the Tokyo game there (V:tR), so check that out. Seriously. I got a bit carried away with writing up the background and details for that setting, but there's some awesome potential in the venue. And with the handful of vampire characters I'm storytelling for at the moment, I'm getting a lot of praise and enthusiasm. Which is good!

Actually, I should post that on the V:tR community thing. Hrrrmmm...

Ooh, I also started Japanese lessons - so, anyone else who is learning, or can speak it, feel free to add me/comment me. I could use someone to practice on.

Tommy Miller - another WoD character. : )

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 00:47:52 GMT

Tommy Miller

There’s a lot wrong with Tommy Miller.

Sure, he has a few things going his way. He’s sharp, for one – and pretty quick to the mark. He’s got the booksmarts, and the streetsmarts too. That, coupled with an uncanny ability to get himself out of a jam, makes for one great detective. There isn’t much that escapes his notice, and if anything does, you can be sure that he’ll find out how. And why.

Now, the small print?

It all started in the ‘20s. The swingin’ years, and the time of the gangsters. Chicago really was just like the movies; the Mob owned the streets in their slick black suits and fedora hats, calling upon their own dirty justice on the public when they felt like it. Gunfights in the streets, bank jobs were all part of your average day in the Windy City – and there was nothing the cops could do about it.

Young Tommy grew up in this, in the midst of the violence and corruption. But somehow, he kept his sense of justice. He persevered as a boy in school, scraping and saving so he’d be able to join up with the police. Eventually, when he was sixteen, he was given the chance. He turned up at the local ‘nick, ready to do his best…

…and was caught in a deadly crossfire from a local gang shooting. His right leg was torn through by the hot metal impact, simultaneously ruining his ability to walk and chances of ever working with the police. It was heartbreaking, to say the least. Tommy, so full of pep and vigour, wouldn’t be able to do the job he wanted so much.

Another opportunity presented itself, though. As his leg healed up somewhat – he’d never walk without a limp again, and running was almost impossible – he began to review other options. He read about a local P.I firm in the broadsheet, and immediately became enthralled with the idea. The money wasn’t much, admittedly, but he’d still get a shot at justice.

Twenty years went by. Detective Miller, as he was called then, had a wife, and a beautiful daughter, Emily. He was one of the lucky few not to be called to fight in any of the wars, because of his leg. He always liked to joke about that, calling the damaged limb his ‘lucky suffering’.

He had no idea. And he lost his life because of it.

Ironically, Tommy’s death was due to a job done too well. He was walking down a street, as part of a stakeout routine. A ‘real spooky night’, he’d later describe it as; the moon was high and full, casting a pale white glow over streets laced with fog and mist. Sounds were muffled. A man could lose his way, on a night like that.

One man did, anyway. Tommy stumbled into an alleyway, drawn by faint sounds of scraping from around the corner. He’d thought it was the poor shmuck he’d been shadowing. What he saw, was something entirely different.

It was horrific. A young man, no older than twenty, was shoved up against the wall, head lolled to one side and eyes gaping. Before him was a real wretch of a woman, clad in filthy red rags and covered in grime. Her expression was wild, as she clawed the boy apart with talon-like nails. His blood glistened in thick, berry-red drops on her blackened lips, trickling down to her chin in the corner.

“M…ma’am?” Tommy ventured, trembling.

The crone turned around, shooting the detective a venomous glance. Her thin tongue traced a line across her fangs.

“Ma’a-“

She was on him in an instant, driving him down onto the hard pavement and ripping into his neck with a bestial ferocity that was as frightening as it was… pleasurable. To his credit, Tommy fought back for the briefest of moments – but a sharp slap to his face dismissed any of those ideas. He was slipping into oblivion.

Weird part is, he liked it.

Tommy rose again two hours later, cold as the grave – literally – and hungry as hell. Literally. He saw two blurred shapes at the end of the alleyway, and surged forward. He heard some cries of pain and confusion, but ignored them. All that mattered was that sweet stuff running through their veins.

His vision returned, bringing with it a gut-wrenching revelation.

He just killed his wife.

He just killed his daughter.

Tommy's mind snapped in two. He vomited thick blood, then disgusted himself by lapping it up like an animal. He fled, stumbling across the street and collapsing, face down, onto his apartment floor.

So ends the man. So begins the vampire.

Although… very little changed, essentially. He carried on his work as a private eye, albeit with a different time schedule as he realised that the sun cut deeper than blades. He got better and better at his job, as he unlocked new powers of the Vitae and spent more time in the shadows. He even found some others like him, pledging himself to the Camarilla and learning more about the childer of the night.

On the outside, he was reacting well to the Embrace – but there’s a terrible truth about Tommy Miller. A truth that quite belies his calm, composed exterior, and exposes in full the maniac within:

Tommy’s office hasn’t received a call in over twenty-three years. The line is dead.

No matter what he says, when Tommy feeds, he kills. No doubt about it.

Tommy’s ‘evidence box’ is in fact just a crate full of finger paintings his daughter did, back when she was alive.

All these things… he has no idea. He thinks he’s an active P.I, working hard on his cases and arriving in the nick of time to stop the bad guy. Nobody could know any different; when he’s not actively trying to seek out someone, he’ll keep himself to himself. He’s living in a dream world, and nobody can convince him otherwise.

Maybe they don’t want to? Tommy has a knack of being in the right place, at the right time – or the wrong one. Whether it’s by chance, or some sort of latent Malkavian mind trick, he’s busted a number of Sabbat schemes by simply being there to forewarn his superiors of the attempt. This, along with his considerable experience as a detective, is proving invaluable to the Camarilla.

The worst thing you can do with Tommy Miller is underestimate him. You really, really don’t know what he’s capable of.

Jesus Alvarez (Espía)

Tue, 22 May 2007 19:57:25 GMT

Jesus Alvarez (Espía)

After getting mixed up in one too many armed robberies, Jesus Alvarez was forced to flee San Angel, and, through more luck than anything else, get past the border unchecked. However, on the way, something truly amazing happened...

As he was on that freight train, hidden 'cunningly' in a large crate on one of the supply carriages, an accident happened. The train was derailed, and hurled off the tracks with considerable force. Apparently, there was a car broken down on the crossing-point. In any case, it was a tragedy.

...for most. Jesus was hurled out, in his crate, through the door - which, luckily, was open at the collision - and sent flying out onto the dusty road nearby. He landed with a crash, and all went black.

When he opened his eyes, and poked his head out, he was staring at a different world. Spirits and shadows drifted around, bound by unseen forces. The road itself wound in a senseless curve, around tall, swaying cacti and shimmering clouds of dust. Jesus reached out and touched one of the spectres in the air, subconciously feeding it with his life force. It responded, and told him to write his name on the collapsed train.

He was up to 'Z' when the authorities came; or, at least, when those that looked like them came. They were paranoia spirits, charged by the power of Jesus' Awakening, and embodied by his fear of being caught. They attacked him, lashing out with clawed hands and snarling with bestial maws. The Mexican struggled to fight back, wishing to God that he had his knife.

It appeared in his hand. Subconciously, he had brought it through into the Shadow.

"Time to die, cabrones," Jesus growled, launching himself at them. He tore three to shreds instantly - but the fourth, and last, snapped his knife between its fangs. It pressed forward, ready to do the same to the man before it.

Suddenly, Jesus realised something. There were others in this world, and he could use them. He spread his hands out wide and summoned a flock of swallow-spirits, who descended in a squawking crowd and devoured the 'authority' instantly. They then dispersed, their job done.

Jesus finished signing his name, and woke up in his body. He had a purpose now. He was something new.

Stanley Lovejoy

Sat, 19 May 2007 16:29:40 GMT

Stanley Lovejoy - The Man Who Can.

Stanley Lovejoy, a Londoner from the south side, was a bad little boy even before he was a dead one; after spending the better part of his childhood on the streets, hopping between foster homes and institutes, he signed up to the British Army in 1936. And although it wasn’t meant to last, his enthusiasm was certainly there. He enjoyed those first six months in the military career, filled with young eagerness to give Germany a bloody nose.

Sadly, the cold reality of war kicked in soon. In one particular skirmish with the enemy in France, his unit were pushed to the front, and gunned down mercilessly. Stanley can even remember to this day the nightmarish scene – the screams, the throes of agony, and the deafening rattle of the guns. He managed to stay alive, though; he staggered back to the camp, half-dead on his feet and splattered with the blood of his comrades.

Ironically, he received a medal for his bravery, and was upped to a Sergeant. But he was a changed man, filled with bitterness and deep, loathing hatred for his adversaries. He went on to commit a number of atrocities towards the conclusion of the Second World War, the least of which were too horrific to mention for most. Suffice to say, Stanley Lovejoy was dishonourably discharged in 1941, and sent back to a district penitentiary back home.

Prison opened his eyes to the reality of the world. Nothing meant anything on the inside, and nothing was sacred. He learnt quickly to be the meanest, toughest bastard in those four walls – and, after just one year behind bars, managed to scrabble his way to the top. Prisoners were terrified of him, and the guards knew to give him a wide berth. One look at his crazed features was enough to assure them that it wasn’t worth messing with him.

Stanley loved all this, of course, delighting in the feeling of power it gave him. Which was why, eight years later, when his time was finished, he was almost reluctant to leave.

For those first few days on the outside, he considered all sorts of felonies – anything to put him back where he belonged. But, just as quickly as he’d adapted to prison, he worked out how to ‘play’ real life, too. He got in contact with a few friends that were released before him, and soon found himself doing the same sort as work before: blackmailing, intimidating, and threatening. Only this time, it was for someone else. Some mystery man behind the scenes, named ‘Howley’.

It got worse. With the economic slump in industrial England at the time, he was forced to do more and more to make ends meet. Blackmail turned to outright extortion, and threats were replaced with GBH. He even burnt down several offices in the rich end, and hence earned a bad reputation with the local police. But that never stopped him. He needed it.

The ultimate test came on Christmas Eve, 1953, when ‘Howley’ contacted Stanley, and instructed him to do something he’d never done before. Kill one of his friends, in cold blood – just for cash. Sure, he’d killed many times in the War, but that was different. They were the enemy. This was Brigg Bailey, a man he’d known for the better part of ten years. Could he do it?

Standing over the body, clutching the knife and breathing hard, Stanley found out the answer. This was it. He couldn’t sink any further.

“Just my type of scum,” a voice said behind him. Stanley whirled round, eyes wild, and found himself face to face with a tall, shadowy man, with a face like a smashed pumpkin and a reek of graveyard earth. Before he could say anything more, the man pinned him to the floor, and tore his throat apart with a set of long, vicious fangs.

Four excruciating minutes later – though, they seemed like hours – and Stanley awoke again, among the ranks of the Nosferatu. His face, which he had previously regarded as ‘ruggedly handsome’ on a good day, was criss-crossed with deep, lacerating scars and livid cuts. He was disfigured. Vile. A quick glance at his hands showed him the same thing.

“What am I?” Stanley asked, suddenly afraid.

“You’ll see, m’boy. You’ll see.”

Turns out, the Kindred that Embraced him was Howley. He had been testing Stanley, for all those years, pushing him to the limit as to ascertain whether he could last eternity at his side. When he could willingly turn on one he loved, then it was finished. He was always a vampire within, and now he was a vampire without.

Twenty-five years went by: a blink of an eye for the Elders of the night, but an agonisingly long time for Stanley. He was forced into the Carthian Movement on his sire’s whim, and was actively involved with the forwarding of their political agenda in London for quite some time. He was smart, cunning and efficient – and, more importantly, was never afraid to get his hands dirty.

He was too good, it seems. He had secretly begun to grow tired of the Rabble, and all their endless squabbling, and wanted out. There was no chance Howley would listen, so he fled one night, sneaking aboard a riverboat, and then onto a ship bound for New York. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the only Kindred to do so; there was an Irishman aboard the ship, named Owen Gallagher, who was fleeing England for similar reasons to Stanley. The two talked over a number of things on the long journey, one of which being the group he’d never really considered: the Circle of the Crone.

Stanley quickly became enthralled by the idea of unity, and celebration of vampirism. He’d never really had a family. Maybe this was time to try one out?

When he reached the Big Apple, he sought them out. And though they were naturally distrustful of this nomad at first, they quickly realised the value he had for their covenant, and introduced him into the Chorus. Whilst he would never really develop by way of faith, his loyalty, and devotion to the group as a whole made it worthwhile. Everything he did for the Carthians, he could do for the Circle, and that was certainly not to be underestimated.

The year is now 2007. After a nasty episode involving one of the Primogen in New York, Stanley has left the city with the destination of Atlanta in mind. His fellow Acolytes assured him of a position within the Circle there, and that they’d be welcoming him in.

How much truth there is in that statement is open to interpretation, but it doesn’t unduly matter. Wherever Stanley goes, he shows a remarkable ability to adapt, twist and alter the situation to suit him – and Atlanta shouldn’t be any different. He’s smart, ruthless, and wily.

The city could use a man like him, right?

Description

Stanley is tall, and wiry, with a kind of scraggly strength that only comes from a lifetime on the streets. His hair is a tangled, dirty blonde mess, occasionally flopping down onto his green eyes; though, unlike most, his eyes aren't the first thing you notice. His skin is literally covered in deep, livid scars - torn apart in places by the lacerations. Coupled with the maddened glare he always seems to carry, this Haunt is physically disturbing to look at. Watch out.

Quote: "This ain't my fault. It was society that made me this way, y'know? Now hold still, else I'll cut you so bad you'll look fucking worse than me."