Anton

The Marquis De Merteuil is just over six feet tall. He has dark brown hair and dark eyes, a light smattering of facial hair, and a small cleft in his chin. Most would simply describe the man's appearance as intimidating. And they are probably very accurate.

His personality may be summed up in a nutshell as intense and multi-faceted. The Marquis Anton Guillaume de Merteuil is a nobleman by birth, and of high rank in the royal courts. Despite a life of ease and wealth, he is driven to push himself and everyone around him far beyond the mark of excellence. He never forgets a trespass, and never forgives a debt. His arrogance precedes him. His enemies fear him. And his own countrymen are glad that he has traveled far from home, taking his iron fist rigidity with him. Unknown to most, including his wife and immediate family -- Anton is quite the hedonist, sporting a sadistic streak a mile wide. There is a fine line betwixt love and hate. The Marquis Anton Guillaume de Merteuil completely obliterates it.

He is fond of torturing the masses in his public life, while harrowing the more desperate souls in private. Ironically, he is a wonderful husband and father.. though quite strict.

He likes: Power. Inflicting pain, both physical and mental. Strict order and routine. Absolute control.

He dislikes: Chaos. Boredom. Hunger. People whose spirits break too easily. The word "No."

Anton has a wife and four young children. He lives a double life, keeping countless liaisons discretely in the shadows -- some of which are lovers, and some of which who simply crave discipline at the hands of an exacting nobleman. More than two-thirds of the sovereign province of Angoulême's peasantry wishes he were dead. Needless to say, he will not be back home for quite awhile.

The Marquis Anton Guillaume de Merteuil left his father's home once he reached the age of consent, seeking out his own entitlements and prestige through hard work and tenacity. Within a year he married a young noble lady from the House of Créquy, fathering four children as well as securing his own rank within the royal courts. He successfully led a political faction for several years that only recently threatened to topple the delicate balance between wealthy land owners and the local peasantry by decreeing unusually stiff tax levies upon the poor. Needless to say, the insurgent peasants revolted.. leading to one of the bloodiest civil wars in all of Angoulême's thousand year history, and the hanging deaths of more than five hundred serfs believed to have instigated the riots.

Exactly one year after the dust and peace resettled over the the sovereign province of Angoulême, the Marquis Anton Guillaume de Merteuil grew restless with little else to conquer and subject to his iron-fisted political despotism. He journeys far from home, leaving behind his wife and family.. seeking out new exploits and conquests. He has heard rumors of the kingdom he journeys to. Wicked rumors.

He comes to see whether or not there is any truth in them.

---------------

A horse-drawn coach pulled away, heading back to the nearby village, and in its wake two men were left standing there by the roadside. They exchanged something between them from hand to hand, before one turned and led the way toward the castle. The other, obviously a subordinate, followed behind, keeping up with the brisk pace. 'Twas only when they reached the grand doors, that the lesser fellow was allowed to step ahead and announce the name of his superior to a doorman.

"The Marquis de Merteuil," was the name called above the din of noise within. It was crowded, as if the Queen and her son, the Prince were hosting some sort of lavish event, replete with live party favors on display for all to see and admire. Anton did not know the Queen, and neither did he know her son. Nor had any formal invitation been extended to him all the way to the sovereign province of Angoulême. Yet on a self-imposed exile from his homeland, coming here had been the most obvious and logical choice due to the dark and wicked rumors whispered amongst those of his own debauched inner circles.

Once inside, Anton gave over his coat and hat to the other fellow with whom he'd arrived, only to lean aside and whisper into the man's ear.

"Stay close, Lothair."

"Oui, Chevalier," the other fellow whispered back, giving a slight nod of his head in deference to his superior. Lothair was neither slave nor servant, but merely subordinate to such a high ranking dignitary of Angoulême's royal courts, and least likely to look any of them directly in the eye when conducting business. Insomuch as Lothair was paid handsomely to accompany Anton to a distant kingdom, he would as soon prefer to return home again to his own wife and family. For unlike the Marquis Anton Guillaume de Merteuil, Lothair actually missed his family.

Soon enough they would be mingling in the pleasant crowd of folks with Anton leading the way and his hired gentleman following close at his heel, bearing the man's coat and hat upon his arm. Anton exchanged several cordial glances of acknowledgment with various souls, though rarely ever to any of the eye-candy upon display. No.. it was the Queen herself he'd be keeping an eye out for. Why start at the bottom, when the top would suffice, after all? And yes.. he was just that arrogant.

---------------

After quite some time it seemed the queen was either being fashionably late, or simply not showing up to the party at all. Pity that. But as Anton continued to mingle for appearances' sake, he eventually came across a red haired woman standing near her chair with a slave kneeling nearby. Lothair held back more than an arm's distance with his eyes down, so that none would suspect the two men were friends.. or even peers. Their classes were miles apart.

Anton tipped his head slightly and offered a brief, cordial smile to the woman.. whom he'd not readily suspected as somewhat blind. Her eyes didn't do that strange, random uncontrollable roaming that the eyes of someone born blind did.

"Pardonnez-moi," the Marquis spoke rather discretely to her. "But I wonder if you could point the way to the privy."

He held a white handkerchief right up to his mouth and coughed into it before tucking it away again. The trip had been a rather long and arduous one, and it seemed to him suddenly stifling in the grand hall with so many people crowding. Everything soon began to take its toll. The Marquis decided, too, that he and Lothair might not be staying too long.. for he was anxious to head back into the small, provençial town where he'd already rented a fine room in one of several inns. The downside was, he'd arranged for his coach to return at a specific hour of the night. And now his plans seemed to be changing.

Lothair stuffed a hand down into his coat pocket after following his superior's conversation, where he fingered a small paper packet containing a powdered mixture that had been prepared by an apothecary back in the sovereign province of Angoulême. It was only one of several identical packets.. though the medicinal value of each was somewhat questionable.

Anton never looked back at his subordinate, but merely snapped his fingers off to the side as he prepared to follow the woman's directions. Or better yet.. maybe she would simply lead the way. She wasn't the least bit unpleasant to look upon, afterall. And he'd run out of idle chit chat for Lothair, already bored to tears by the fellow's presence. But then again, The Marquis Anton Guillaume de Merteuil was easily bored by a lot of things, and Lothair never took it personally. There was a name for people like Anton. And not a very nice one at that.


Patrick S. © 2010

The Death Of A Whore

Search yourselves cunningly, I pray you, analysing your inmost thoughts. And first you shall discard all those gross obvious hindrances to your Will: idleness, foolish friendships, waste employments or enjoyments, I will not enumerate the conspirators against the welfare of your State.
(Aleister Crowley)

It is an insignificant town that sits at the foothills of the Heroesbane Range, so insignificant that I do not recall its name. Nevertheless it brims with an age-old profession wherein painted women lurk about the Inns in search of lonely travelers with whom they might grant a sexual favor in exchange for a bit of bread.. or perhaps a coin. And while the town remains nameless in my mind, the whore does not.

I was accosted by more than a few before I relented and allowed one to capture my eyes and my attention. Evelyn. I suspected that at one time, she must have been very pretty. Long before the ravages and usury of time had caught up to her. For now, her smile is sad and her eyes filled with a hollowness. And I pity this woman, who for a piece of bread was willing to spread open wide and bare her very soul to me.. a stranger.

As for me, I cannot defile her. Not like that.

Yet she assured me she was quite willing to succumb to any secret proclivity, no matter how vile.. for the right price. And I am sure she has seen more than her share in her lifetime.

But I shall not take what is precious from her. I shall not know her in such a carnal manner. Though I doubt she was aware of this before she breathed her last and fell backward upon me, bathing me in the warm succor of her sacrifice.

And for this, I kissed her upon her cold brow as a father might. And I left her several coins for her passage into the next life. May she fare better than she did in this one.

A chapter from The Necromancer's Handbook
as played out in an excerpt from the story Vale Of The Enclave:





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Sleeping With Eddie

(Selection from Ugly Vegas)

Eddie's voice cut to the quick and with a hushed gasp, the Baroness looks to its source. The doorway.. So he'd either been watching all along or he came moseying by at the end to show good 'ole Rudy the door. Like the delivery man, Lara feels guilty, kneeling there, her lips shiny with another man's ejaculate. Guilty that she'd crumbled so easily to the will of not the lesser man but of Eddie. She licks slowly at the sore spots on her mouth but doesn't get up from her kneel.

"Is it because I've been with so many men.. that you don't want me?" No blow jobs because her mouth is a dumping ground. No sex for the same reason. Maybe that's why Quist is as stand-offish as he is.. and why he prefers to merely watch her take on man after man.

Gone in Sixty Seconds. Rudy dashed from the penthouse suite without ever looking back, leaving the blonde foreign bitch and the Vegas Snowman to their lonesome once again. Eddie remained there in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at Lara on the bedroom floor as she seemed once again to beg something from him. The girl wanted.. to be wanted. Wanted by him, no less. And yet he remained there, staring down at her with the same stony, passionless expression all the while. Gone were the shits and grins from his previous egging of Rudy the clothing delivery guy. And what seemed a fun game, was now quite over.

It was amusing the way a broad concluded her worthlessness if she got rejected the least little bit. And here this bitch, Lara Mortonmere could have any dick she wanted. Any dick at all. Eddie didn't answer her. His mood seemed to have changed a bit in the past half hour or so.

Lara doesn't do well to be stared at. Her hopeful expression falters as her eyes seek solace in a stare to the carpet, down and away from Eddie. She's a vision. Honey skin, long blonde hair, features that make a man's mouth water but he makes her feel like soap scum ringing a neglected bath tub. He wasn't going to answer. Or maybe he didn't need to but with a clipped nod, she at last rises from her subservient kneel to look about for something to where. None of her clothes await her in the bed room.. she'd shed them prior to her arrival here so with a barely audible sigh, she tries to edge past Eddie, trying to hug the wall opposite from him so she wouldn't be the added spark to his powder keg. His silences frightened her.

Eddie stuck his leg out there inside the door's frame, refusing to grant her passage to the other side, still garbed in a filthy pair of Levis that he'd never bothered to zip up.. ever since Rudy had entered their suite to deliver clothes. His tip far more generous than the twenty bill Lara had originally intended to give him -- two sips off a spilled beer and a blow job.

"Go to bed, Baby Doll," he finally broke his silence at last.

Blocked from passing, her dark eyes fly to his face.. but seeing no fury edged there in sharp relief, Lara allows herself a shaky breath. All that was in her wanted to slide her hand down the exposed patch of flesh between the flaps of his jeans, to make him happy.. and liking her better but touching Eddie could spell disaster. With a bite to her bottom lip, she brushes her fingertips over denim alone, one of those flaps batted away from his stomach to better the view. She's in love with Quist.. in her own way. In their own way.

"Yes, Eddie.." she whispers, retreating from him to pad back over to one side of the bed. Obediently she slides beneath the covers, turning down his side.. in case he wished to follow.

Eddie kind of liked the broad. Funny that. For the man didn't much like anyone at all. That is not to say he disliked anyone. e was simply indifferent.. to the whole human race. A social pariah who could easily enough turn on the charm and pretense, in order to get what he wanted. Until the scene was over. He'd not endure a close relationship for any other reason, than to gain something for himself. He'd tolerated Rudy just long enough.. not so much to sate his penchant for voyeurism, but perhaps to sate the hungry whore, Lara. Who seemed.. insatiable. Look at her! Still wanting something more.

Eddie remained there, standing in the doorway with both arms folded over his chest for several minutes after the broad turned back and crawled into the big, king-sized bed. It seemed he might have been contemplating leaving.. the way his jaw twitched once or twice.

"Don't go.. stay.." She whispers. No longer reclining with her head on the pillow, Lara lifted up to gently pat the spot beside her, straightening the pillow slightly. He hadn't followed and the Baroness can sense she is about to lose him to beer and the boob tube.

"I could rub your back, Eddie. Or .. we can just sleep. When was the last time we slept?"

Together they'd been awake for more than one day, possibly two. The past hours bled together and she wasn't sure what day it was. And she should be more worried about the American police and that lech, Carlo whatever, but right now, she only wants Eddie Quist to like her. Just a little. Especially after Rudy.. because for some reason or another, Lara is sure that whole episode is all her fault. She'd failed some test. She should have said no.

She ought to be crashing soon enough after her last hit of coke -- especially after the three-day no-sleep marathon. And whether the insatiable little crack whore realized it or not, Edward Quist meant to take care of her needs. Food, sleep, sexual gratification in one way or another, and permission to use the crapper any damn time she needed. The bare essentials for survival. What was odd.. was that he cared at all. Eddie could just as easily crash out on the couch in front of the tv, and seemed to have every intention of doing so. That is until she rose up and gave a pat to the fluffy king-sized pillow in its crisp white linen case.

His arms unfolded and at last he pushed himself from the door frame and right into the bedroom. Near the bed he turned his back to her and tugged his filthy Levis right off. They were stiff enough almost to stand there on their own -- and even walk away. And right afterward, Eddie sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to Lara, and stared out at the glittering neon Vegas panorama out the large bay window. He hadn't slept.. since he met the bitch.

"Been days," he said quietly.

In her own right, Lara plays a little hard ball. The sheet does lovely things to her beautifully full breasts, sliding down their firm, tawny slopes to catch for a breathless moment at her nipples before falling away to her lap. She crosses her long legs when he approaches, turning towards him to ever-so gently run her hand down his back. It is soothing, not sexual for his words bring it home how bloody weather-worn they are. She doesn't say anything more, worried she might topple the precariously balanced apple cart and screw herself out of this tiny concession. She gets to rub his back. First only one handed and tentatively at that.. but finally Lara gathers her legs beneath her to kneel naked behind him. She feels something.. a connection. It stands out from the pleasant buzz in her head. Eddie needs her. He wouldn't hit her.. or get angry if he didn't feel something. She runs her hands over him slowly sometimes going as high as the back of his neck, sometimes as far as the ends of his shoulders.

Eddie didn't writhe or twist the way most would do under such a slow caress of hands. Instead he sat there motionless.. lost in some kind of daze in his own world where none were privy to enter. And for several minutes he simply tolerated the woman's closeness; didn't shove her away. Then after a particular long and silent spell, he asked very quietly:

"Why'd you suck him?"

One would think that question would be a shocker but Lara is either too tired to feel that emotion or she saw it coming. So how to answer it? She stares at his shoulder in thought, making tiny figure eights on his warm warm skin.

"At first.. because you wanted me to, Eddie." His shared wink.. his offering her up like his own little complimentary gift. It had made her feel good to be considered his property, even if that later waned.

Cock sucking seemed such a selfless act; nothing at all in it for the one who knelt and sucked. It was the purest act of giving from bitch to alpha.. and one he'd seen plenty of in all his years behind bars in the Leavenworth federal penitentiary. So why had she chosen the subservient cock-sucking when she could have had herself a nice fuck between the legs, replete with kisses and hugs and shit? When it seemed Lara hadn't gotten the gist of his question, he turned his head aside and glanced back at her with a stretch from the corners of his eyes.

"Why didn't you just let him fuck you, instead?" He laid his hand down right atop the broad's knee.

Lara frowns slightly and when the pretty lady frowns, her lips pooch out in a lovely pout.

"Because.. I wanted someone else."

Women were finicky like that. Even whores could go strange and prefer the man who got them hot and bothered in the first place to sate them. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered and she might've richly enjoyed riding Rudy's thick prong but not when Eddie wasn't her lover too. The fact he hadn't taken the plunge -- but wasn't adverse to doing so with other women, aka that despot bitch, Rebecca -- made Lara feel like she wasn't good enough. And it also made him three thousand times more alluring. Lara wanted what she cannot have.

"Did I do bad by not fucking him? I thought you wanted me to make him happy, Eddie.. I'm sorry.."

Lara was given a glimpse inside. Just a mere glimpse where she was no longer the outsider, but the third wheel Rudy was instead. Rudy had been the set-up, afterall. The one meant to put on a show and perform; the one meant to be useful and butter up a hungry whore's cunt.

"Don't be suckin' dicks no more, Baby Doll." Eddie squeezed her knee, deciding right then and there that he didn't like the broad suckin' the dicks of johns.

"I don't want you doin' that." And that was that. Though interestingly enough, he'd tolerated her sucking his own flaccid cock right before Rudy had arrived with his delivery of clothes. But.. that was different. Lara was his bitch.

Eddie pushed her knee aside and finally laid himself down on the bed, stretching out flat while staring up at the ceiling.

But. .but.. he'd insisted she suck the cabbie's dick! He was going to beat her black and blue if she did not and by his own admission Eddie had richly enjoyed playing voyeur to her oral skills. Lara doesn't argue with him though, she only nods while trying her best to use her tongue as a squee-gee and get rid all the remnants of Rudy's cum out of her mouth. Eddie didn't like what she did, even if the delivery man sure did.

"I promise.. I won't any more," she whispers, moving aside when it appears he wants to stretch down on the soft coverlet. She runs her nails up and down his nearest arm, studying the many tattoos that cover it as well as his shoulder.

The felon could change his mind on a dime, and very often did without a hint of warning, either. Whatever went through his head, his own logic, his own warped perceptions.. he wasn't much for sharing. Though it was a fairly safe assumption that much of his psyche had been shaped from not only the decades of imprisonment.. but being reared at the hands of a non-functioning alcoholic mother and her myriad of abusive, live-in lovers. And for as much as he hated the white-trash cunt.. here he was tangled up with a woman who was probably just like her! Odd that. But then again, people did tend to live out their existence in tail-chasing cycles of repetition.

Eddie reached up with that same arm Lara was fingering, only to curl it around her and drag her right down to lay against him, opening his door just another hair.

She wants desperately to be a good bitch. To please him until he passes out, but Lara's body betrays her once snuggled against his side. She lays her head down beside Quist's shoulder and her hand which had been lightly stroking up and down his arm, makes its passes instead to his chest, yet slower and slower. He was holding her. It made her feel so good she forgot all about her foibles with Rudy and about hunter Blair and the American police. With a happy sigh, Lara closes her eyes to what seems like the first time in centuries since she's allowed her lashes to fully decend.

"You smell so good.." she mumbles and passes out completely.

Sleep doesn't come so easily to Edward Quist. He's been somewhat of an insomniac.. or perhaps just a very light sleeper, for most of his life. It was part and parcel with survival. And he was the quintessential survivor in the kind of a life that would have left most a victimized casualty. Eddie's instincts are damn near bestial in a dog-eat-dog, cut throat world.

And for as many hours as it took while the bitch slept soundly and wrapped in his arm, Eddie drifted in and out of sleep.. blinking his eyes wide awake at least twenty times or more all throughout.. in a good fourteen hour pass.

The City of Pompeii

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I met an Artist the other day while browsing the seedy shops and local flavor of the Marina Road on the waterfront of the Bay of Naples. He introduced himself to me as Svettio. He is, like most of his kind, a pauper, working for handouts and bits of coin. Yet he is unlike the others in that I sense in him a communal flame that burns by the fire of the Muses, and like me, he is driven.

I watched him for many hours, painting at his easel like a madman. Svettio wore no shirt, and his hair and chest were flecked with the multi oil colors of his palette. For a long time he paid me no mind, yet at some point the Artist became aware of me and graced me with a bit of coy flirtation.

Later that night, when I spoke to Marius of the Artist, he tried to dispel some of my notion that the Artist is as infatuated with me, as I am of him. Marius says that all gypsies are hustlers, and that I am just an unwitting mark. It is simply that Svettio assumes because I dress in fine clothing, that I have coin to squander.

But I cannot subscribe into this theory. I admire the intelligence and insight of my Master, but I am sure on this account.. he is wrong.

I've met with Svettio several more times since that first encounter, and he has assured me on each occasion that I am far too beautiful not to be captured on canvas by his hand. The fee is so nominal -- just six sestertii.

On our last meeting he took me to his studio, which was little more than a grotto chisled into the stone support beam beneath one of the piers, and I became for him a welcomed succor wherein he emptied his lust into me between ravaging kisses.

I fear I will do anything to obtain those six measly bronze coins.
I am not a hustler's mark.

I am the possessed lover of a rising star -- Svettio the Artist.
And I believe his name shall be upon the lips of the avant garde, not only in Pompeii, but in every city within Rome's vast empire.

In every house.

And beating with passion in every breast.

Jackpot

Tossing a hand up to the top of the car, he uses the bit of leverage to climb out.. only to slam the door shut. Eddie turns and crouches down between car and motorcycle, shielded from plain view for those brief moments it took him to unbolster the sawed off shotgun he'd kept right above the drive chain. Down upon his haunches still, he turns and reaches up to the door handle, yanking the heavy Impala door open once again as he climbs back inside. The shotgun is shoved under the seat for the time being. Yet the very sight of it causes Becky to blanch a bit.. moreso when he turns to face her. Eddie draws his switchblade out again and the blade magically springs from its sheath. He holds it just under her jaw. He tells the other broad, Lara, "Drive, Baby Doll."

Becky has a sudden Epiphany.. and not the good kind either. "Are you.. are you going to kill me, Eddie?"

"No," he leans close, whispering into Becky's ear. The feel of it makes her close her eyes and simply pray he is telling the truth. But then again, truth is relative. Edward Quist will not outright kill her. Yet Becky will die of natural causes before the night is through. For at some point between Mac's Truckstop World and wherever it is they are headed.. Rebecca Davis will bake under the hot Nevada sun as temperatures soar into the triple digits inside the trunk of her own late model Chevy Impala. It is only after they burn rubber skid marks from parking lot to interstate frontage road.. and well out of view of gawking onlookers peeking out the diner window and perhaps laughing to themselves about what a crazy fucked up world it was when people flaunted their alternate threesome lifestyles right out in public -- only in Las Vegas, of course -- that Eddie deeply kissed the knocked-up bitch.

--------------------

For the rest of this story and more exciting threads just like it -- check out the forums in Ugly Vegas!

The Vale of the Enclave -- Join Us!

From an era predating time and recorded history comes the tale of the Enclave -- a distinct phratry among the ordinary folk whose settlements stretched from sea to sea along the continental landmass known as The Vale. Typically those numbered among the Enclave society received their inherent membership by blood, passage rites from parent to child among the tribe's elders -- although it was not unknown for one born completely outside the congregation to find his or herself duly sworn into their ranks.

Consisting of powerful sorcerers, apothecaries, mages, fortune tellers & seers, alchemists, and necromancers, this once powerful council eventually broke apart into two distinct factions after centuries of bitter feuding and disagreements -- those of Warlocks, and those the Druids. They remain to this day inextricably woven together at the core, yet the bitterest of enemies over fundamental precepts regarding the distinction of sexes and the worship of deities. Neither side will give an inch toward truce. Neither will admit to any wrong-doing or treachery. And neither will accept the other as any part of the true Enclave.

Over the centuries, each group has both risen to power and been defeated time and again. The last war saw the entire city of Faltha obliterated under the curse of the Black Plague, and all the remained had been burnt to the ground in offering to the Druid goddess Shalindr'a. More than a thousand souls in this Warlock stronghold perished in less than a week. The result of which shifted the tide of rulership into the hands of Druids.


For more than half a century now, the ordinary citizens of the Vale must comply with Druid precepts and law. They must participate in the bi-annual lottery at each equinox wherein a pilgrimage must be made to the southern regions of the Vale below the barren summits of Wyvern's Spine -- the legendary lair of dragons. It is there, under Druid law, that they must sacrifice a virgin girl from among them, to appease the dragons until the next equinox. Failure to comply results in swift and terrifying punishment.

Prophecy declared that a Warlock would rise, like the mythical phoenix from the burning ashes, bringing with him the defeat of Druid tyranny. In their desire to squash what may well be true, the Druids unleashed a horrifying disease upon the Warlock stronghold, in hope of solidifying their own strength and supremacy throughout the Vale. For decades they have awaited, both Druid and ordinary Citizen alike -- to see whether the prophecy had been true.

The Vale Of The Enclave is accepting fantasy writers!
Interested?

Contact Warrick Erebus for story entry and questions.

Or browse the Vale Of The Enclave website.

AvP Euphoria -- Join Us!

Dtai'k-dte sa-de nav'g-kon dtain'aun bpide.

"The Fight begun would not end until the end." ~Old Yautja saying.

The mining satellite, U-4EA (referred to with no small amount of tongue-in-cheek as Euphoria) is a carbunkle on the butt crack of the universe. A decade ago, when an ore vein hidden deep within the planet's core did not pan out to the magnitude they'd hoped, the Weyland-Yutani Corporation turned the remote satellite into a refuse pile where cast-off employees can go and remain available for future uses, both good and bad.

U-4EA, a loser's last stand will stand as battle ground between the two most deadly species in the universe. Predators & Xenomorphs. AVP -- Euphoria.

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More Tall Tales

In the previous post we did go over the different role playing and writing styles, and the categories that folks often get pigeon-holed into. The intent here is not to knock personal preferences, as most of you have already noticed by now that the vast majority of online role players will fall into Group-A -- preferring the chit-chatty relationship settings over the action/adventure stories. And that's fine if that's the sort of role play that makes you happy. But for the small percentage of folks who've grown a little bored with the chit-chatty relationship settings that turn out to be the same basic scene day after day.. rest assured that there are others like you, and you're not alone.

You want thrills. You want action. You want thickly woven plots that keep you on the edge of your seat. Suspense. You want characters who keep you guessing. Villains and swashbuckling pirates. You want excitement and...

Danger!

It is imperative that you surround yourself with players who want exactly the same. That is NOT to say you want to be involved with power-mongers who try to win in every scene. Affectionately known as the God-moders, these are the ones whose characters will frequently possess mind-reading skills, supersonic hearing, and x-ray vision. They will try to kill off your character in a single sentence, but their characters are always immune to any sort of counter attack.

Instead, you want to look for and surround yourself with one or more players who possess no mental baggage or trust issues. Because in order to have high style, collaborative fiction storytelling, you've got to be able to trust as well as be trusted. It's never about winning afterall. It's about leaving a scene after an hours-long writing session with a smile on your face, knowing you moved the other player(s).

Have you moved anyone with your storytelling lately?

Join us on The Storyteller's TriQuetra!

Tall Tales

Best-selling novelist Stephen King was once quoted in Publisher's Weekly as saying, "Don't give them what they want -- give them what you want." By most online role playing game standards, Stephen would be labeled a God-Moder.

There seems a general consensus of late in the online role play gaming forums as to what constitutes good and worthy storytelling, where lines are drawn right down the middle. You go to Group-A if you prefer a character-based story, and Group-B if you prefer a plot-based story, where you're likely to be labeled as a God-Moder, too.

(Note: In response to thread on RPG-Directory's discussion forum thread Roleplay Talk)

Time to drag out the old college Holt Handbook and the Smartin's (pet name given to St. Martin's Guide to Writing), as well as the Guide to Writing In The Disciplines, and the latest edition of The Writer's Handbook. Folks, there is no such thing in any writer's manual that divides written stories into plot-driven stories and character-driven stories. Writing always has, and always will be divided into two classical categories from which a myriad of genres arise -- Fiction and Non-Fiction.

A fiction story must be driven by a plot AND characters. To remain interesting, it must have an amazing plot and exceptional characters. The rules have not changed in this. Nor will they.

Fiction writing that lacks any sort of plot and deals only with characters jabbering in a restaurant in one scene, then jabbering in a living room in the next scene, and a little romance tossed in for extra measure -- is not a story at all. It's a soap opera. And what you very often get online isn't even truly fiction in this type of writing element. It tends to cross over into the real thoughts and feelings of the person behind the monitor.

Don't get me wrong. I love a good true story just as much as the next guy. But even true stories and non-fiction instruction manuals endeavor to make a point by the time you reach the end. If they didn't, and they just rambled on endlessly, no one would read them. And every publisher in their right mind would be issuing the pink slip of death.

Oh but hey.. in a virtual world of pointless writing no one can ever be erroneously accused or (gasp!) guilty of God-Moding. Hmmm. Sounds like another article in the works.

Join us on The Storyteller's TriQuetra!

The Storyteller's TriQuetra -- Join Us!

The Storyteller’s TriQuetra is a unique and innovative
writer’s community, created to engage storytellers from
all walks of life and offer a chance to indulge in their craft.

While roleplay games spring up and fade off, TriQuetra
gives serious writers a place to grow and a diverse platter
of 'verses to select from. We also promise to keep the
light on. TriQuetra is a multi-dimensional platform that
includes both play-by-post roleplay, chat rooms, and
play by post forums plus much more!

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Become a Member
You're not going to find a better place to grow your
characters, spin your storylines, and immerse yourself
in the world of exquisite graphic making. A role player's
haven comparable to TriQuetra isn't out there. Click Here
to get your very own Storyteller's account. It's Free!

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TriQuetra 'Verses

Create a 'Verse
Interested in creating a haven devoted especially to your
storytelling skill? The 'Verse are TriQuetra's chat room
and forum-based storylines and while any member is
welcome to join a current 'Verse, some of us won't be
satisfied unless we have our own turf. Click here for
details on starting your own 'Verse on TriQuetra.

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Building All New Worlds

Good things only get better over time. Fine wine. Ripe cheese. Artists -- whether they be musician, painter, writer -- they seem to mellow and actually improve with age. The same might be said of longevity in the world of interactive storytelling where the group of writers and players have grown comfortable and close-knit over long periods of time. At least in an ideal world.

Sadly, for the vast majority of subscribers to internet role playing venues, the opposite is often true and over time you begin to realize you're surrounded by a lot of really miserable and obnoxious people who love to spread their disease around. Or the chronic underachievers who've never improved their ability to even write a coherent sentence. Makes you often wonder what it is about a text-based medium that attracts the illiterate.

So there I was, taking a personal assessment after twelve long years dedicated to a particular site with their own ftp storage, user-friendly chat rooms, nifty little profiles to manipulate with my own html creations, etc. But all around me were the same, disgruntled people, who year after year and year had never much improved their storytelling ability, their grammar, or their general outlook on why we even log in to the internet at all.

That's when a friend and I got together and began hunting search engines and toplists for other places where we might join a role play community and search for people who were like us. You know, the kind who want to write great stories and have lots of fun doing it.

Well, we searched and searched. And we finally joined one we thought looked pretty cool. Lots of member names listed, and a nicely written creed on the front page regarding a genuine love for great writers and storytellers. That was us! And my friend and I made the plunge.. leaving our old site of more than a decade behind.

On the new site we wrote for months. We wrote our hearts out. And though we got several pats on the back for writing in a style they'd never seen before, less than a handful bothered to come write with us. On top of that, I realized that much of the community there was not so very different from the one we'd left. A lot due to mere complacency and a lack of interest on the part of the staff. And a few people who were.. well.. a bit obnoxious and rude.

So, there we were back to square one again. Should we leave and look for a new site? Or..

How about we just create our own site! With chat rooms and forums and everything! It was the million dollar question, really -- what would you do differently if you had your own site?

Here's what we did! The Storyteller's Triquetra