Life is a dream from which I sometimes waken.

Here, imagine, if you might, how one might make a rough image of a man, sculpted from rude clay, malformed and misshapen, whose limbs seem askew, misproportioned and improperly aligned; as if, after God had made man, he had given leftover bits to a loved yet unpracticed child, and the child had made effort to copy the father's creation. Starting thus, give this distortion, this unintentional mockery life and intelligence - a mind of keen and sudden insight, one alternately elated and crushed by the constant flow of inspiration. ((This is an RP blog for my own spin on R. M. Renfield. It is associated with no given group, but will interact with anyone. Renfield is a dark and troubled individual - I will put trigger warnings as appropriate. Images not mine unless noted. I track the tag evilbydesignphilosophy ))

[frigga-wife-of-odin]

All the Realms your stage, and every critic watching. Two sons have you made, and another by you craft'd. Mother's love in pain and joys, each measure by measure. But conflict blooms and plots apace to steal one by one each treasure. Father, sons and farther son, each within your orbit; know the love of woman's grace though sometime they seek to hoard it.

The words were true, more than she would care to admit. But the ending confused her. Was he talking about her? 

“Who are you?” She asked slowly.

[frigga-wife-of-odin]

“There are just somethings that we are not supposed to know. I tried to change the paths once and instead insured it happening. I may have the gift of sight but who says I desire it?” She spoke taking a step back. 

“I don’t want it.”

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

“Then give it away,” the oddity replied with sudden lucidity.  “or trade it for something of greater use.   It can be done, yes.   Yes; absolutely.”

[frigga-wife-of-odin]

“"Like what?” she asked tilting the head to the side.

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

So long - so very long he sat there in broken silence, not a word but sounds of broken syllables spilling from his wormwood lips.  Then suddenly those milky eyes blinked, seemed to turn black as the night sky of Midgard; dark and dotted with twinkling lights.

“What would you seek for it?   What price would you have paid, in fair exchange - from value to value.   Tell me, White Queen.”

[frigga-wife-of-odin]

What was there to trade? What would she ask for in place of knowing the future, a gift she already had when at her spindle. What was worth that knowledge?  “I trade your information for one day of happiness, A day where my children and husband are with me and we are all sitting together and talking. A smile on everyone’s face…. Just like we used to many years ago.” She paused and looked to the ground, “Just one day” …. to recharge her self for the energy she put out daily.

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

“You will trade your gift of foresight for a single day of happiness with your husband and children,” he repeated with an odd calm that had not been in his voice prior; the odd manic tone for the moment faded.  “Do we have a correct understanding of what you seek and what you would pay for it?”

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

Can you see me

evilbydesignphilosphy

 requested

“ can you see me right now ? ”

Hazel’s head snapped up and she looked around warily until she found the source of the question.  And….the man from the park.  

“I….yes I can see you, sir.”  -- A smile; a winsome yet somehow serrated smile forged itself from the wreckage of his face; of that face of hard angles and broken parts; the face a reflection of the man wearing it; as though by sculpture the statement might be made.  This was a man broken, though whether by the worlds without or the worlds within there was no clear knowing. And yet, a smile forged itself upon that face.  “I would not call it a gift - and yet I can know a kindness from it; like dewdrops and honeysuckle; a moment’s relief from the dry lands.  A likeness, a kindness, blessings material shared.” He tilted his head to the left at an angle that looked as though it ought be painful; yet no twinge, no twitter, not a sound did the motion conjure from him.  “And do the dreaming days find you well?”

[sagamemes]

crucial muse development questions.   send a number in my inbox to find out more about my character as a person  ( because often, the most important things about character development have nothing to do with their shoe size or netflix queue ).

what would completely break your character?

what was the best thing in your character’s life?

what was the worst thing in your character’s life?

what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?

what is your character reluctant to tell people?

how does your character feel about sex?

how many friends does your character have?

how many friends does your character want?

what would your character make a scene in public about?

for what would your character give their life?

what are your character’s major flaws?

what does your character pretend or try to care about?

how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

what is your character afraid of?

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

In the aftermath (open, post Infinity War)...

Here, there was the dream, and all that lay within it, and like the bauble it was, it shook as though some clumsy child-god had siezed upon it and flailed with all its strength.   Ash swirled and fell, forms torn from dreaming.

And the Renfield wept; salted staining streams snaking down the broken crags of his face.   So many gone from the dream, and yet here, he himself trapt and trammelled.   

He moved among the remains of a world contracting, and wondered what songs might be heard, what new patterns would be woven.   So much was broken and so few remained.

[agentbrompton]

Evening in the Park || evil bydesignphilosphy

[agentbrompton]

agentbrompton:

evilbydesignphilosphy:

“So sings the wingless lark,” he replied, “who bears the apothecary’s bounty.”   He reached out for the bottle, then proceeded to peer at it a time, before twisting off the cap and upending about a third of it on his head,  Thereupon he regarded her as the rivulets of water snaked down the craggy wreckage of his face.

“Of thirst, of need doth her tone invoke, perforce suborned, and in giving, receives,” he mumbled as he clumsily closed the bottle. 

She watched him as he doused himself, and had to grin wide.  It was a perfectly sensible thing to do on such a hot and humid day, but very few would think to actually do it, let alone give in to that simple urge.  His words also took a moment to wrap her head around.  Archaic terms, old sentence structure, but somehow charming.  And he seemed harmless at the moment.  His words clicked through her head and it was a challenge for a moment to decipher them.

“Perforce suborned, sir?”  She kept her grin and shook her head a little.  “I…I didn’t ask you to do anything illegal.  This isn’t a bribe, I promise, just keep the water and drink.  It’s so hot out today, it’s very easy to dehydrate.  Are you well?”  

He batted at his chest a moment, then one misshapen fingernail caught and tore out some stitching; the bottle was slid under the fabric that hung loosely now, its size filling the gap so the remaining stitches were stressed, pulled taut. 

“A nature that receives by giving must take care not to give too much of the self away,” he murmured one eyelid slowly closing almost all the way but never quite making it.

“What humour doth physic, mi’lark,” he inquired of a sudden, those rheumy eyes suddenly seeming disturbingly focused as he regarded her, the top of the water bottle bobbing ever so slightly up and down in time with the arrhytmic span of his breathing.

She met his eyes, caught off-guard by the directness of his gaze and also trying to pick his words apart to find the sense of them in her thoroughly modern head.  It took her a moment but she smiled through it and then grinned a little again, shrugging slightly.  “Humour…humour can do quite a lot.  Cures a great many ills, I think?  At the least…it doesn’t harm if it’s not meant mean, you know?”  

She used the reason to uncap her own bottle and take a drink as a polite way to break her side of the staring.  His comment on giving natures hadn’t gone unheard.  She appreciated it, she’d heard it before as a warning, and sometimes it was heeded; sometimes not.  She swallowed and recapped her bottle, glancing to him once more.  “Do you think so, sir?  I mean regarding laughter and humour?”  

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

His gaze, so steady as might be considered unnerving, held hers the silence seeming to stretch almost unnaturally long; broken at last by the sudden shifting of his hands, coming together palm to palm, but digits reversed, in an odd parody of clapping. 

“It is the doorway, a hinge, a crease through which we see what is too great to absorb in full.   A moment’s wakeful freedom.”

[hangthebloodycode-deactivated20]

reblog this if you actually like following me.

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

Seek the counsel of the mad

Again dreaming, a flit amongst the flesh, that knows the earth as only the worms can, who sees in this wonderland the whimsy of the dark; the tongues of flame and smoking lips.

Wouldst thou see the bespoke seer; and catch and hear?   Ask ... and shall from madness spill the sussurus.   In for a pence as in for a pound; in with the howl torn from the hound.

If thou would know of another, cast their name incised upon a bone, and from its whistling shall thy query be known.

((OOC: Can be done by ask or as a thread as one’s preference inclines. ))

[niiix-archive]

4EVR DEAD  “WHAT ABOUT ME, YOU GUYS? WHAT ABOUT MEEEEE?!”

[houseaeducanreject-deact]

WHAT DID YOU DO TO ZEVRAN OH MY GOD :|

[orsino]

i scrolled down ready to add an angry comment about zev but thank you for taking care of that already

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

I’d love to see one of these for Oghren, even though it’s not actually doable in the core game.   Also, I expect his particular take on this would prove amusing.

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

I, your refuse, your dreams and buried memories. I, buried beneath the mountain of your displeasure, crawled out. Marked by your antipathy. Scarred and broken with the weight of your discarded selves. The broken toy, the clothing no longer favoured. The shattered and weeping remains of outfits once worn proud. All that you looked down on. These mockeries and echoes. Are mine now ... a misfit thing whose love is unwanted whose visage repels My desperate love, lacking you, shall care evermore for these, the things you threw away; my brothers in spirit.

[agentbrompton]

Evening in the Park || evil bydesignphilosphy

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

He stumbled as his foot caught a discarded and partially crushed can of Mug root beer; one hand flailed outward, seeking purchase - finding none as he crashed to the grass-rich soil on the side of the path.   He twisted his head oddly, studying the new environs even as others passed, derisive comments murmured under their breath.    

He laughed at the pointless cruelty - at the barbs that tore more their makers than their victims; snatched a bit of grass and gnawed on it as he sidled, crablike, head lolling from side to side until it was not quite upright relative to his shoulders.   

He wibbled as he wobbled and somehow in all of this made forward progress, leaving the paths of the man-wrought illusion for the imago of the natural.   Toward a large, gnarled oak he meandered, though his path was far more reminiscent of Billy’s travels in the Family Circus than anything remotely resembling a straight line or geometric shape.  

The scent of the herbs caught his attention; he placed hands to the ground, turning a cartwheel with sleeves dragging behind; for his clothes were as ill-fitting as many considered the man himself; a woven together mash of fabrics all worn, giving something of the opposite of the idea of vibrancy; a discord of styles all born with equal disregard by their wearer.

His head lolled to the right as he cantered over toward the oak and its unusual scents; as he drew closer, others started to join the melange; rheumy eyes picked out the woman at the last and he drew his right hand into a fist and pressed it to the bottom of his jaw with slightly jarring force; the impact sending the chicken broth of ideas steeping in his skull scattering the way the letters of alphabet soup might move before a violent stroke of the spoon; and in the wake of such motion, they regrouped, forming new words, new sounds and patterns.

He lifted one hand, steepling the fingers against the empty air, as though another, unseen hand hung there to press against.  The other passed through the ragged tangledown that might be mistaken for hair at a sufficient distance; indeed parts of it probably still were technically such; but the hair, much like the wardrobe, much like the man, seemed suited to no whim or purpose; scarred, patches missing here and there, curling here, wavy there, frizzed in spots.

Thus this ill-suited mannequin came to regard the woman, an odd sort of wonder in his rheumy-eyed gaze; yet no words slipped from those worm-like lips, no coy comments or poorly disguised flirtations; just that stare of oddly rapt intensity; awaiting … something.

The motion in her periphery caught her attention, and she turned cool green eyes towards the man approaching her.  He…was a real character by all visual accounts, and she took him in slowly.  Comic or tragic character, that’s the question.  He had stopped a short distance away  and was gazing on her as if he anticipated …something.  His clothing was odd and in tattered disarray, his hair was a mess (what there was of it),, and he looked to have vision trouble past what his glasses could likely correct.  But still, there he stood, and she mentally tensed herself in case something went very wrong very fast.  

He couldn’t physically hurt her; her bróðir’s gift would make sure of that.  Still, she didn’t want to tussle with him, so she stayed calm and gave a tentative smile, relaxed and nodded slightly to him.  “Sir…good evening,” her slight midlands English accent carried on the warm air to him.  “Is there something I can do for you?  Are you alright?”  She thought a short moment and pulled a fresh pint bottle of water from her backpack, offered it to him outstretched. 

“Here, it’s been a hot day, take this if you’re thirsty?”  

“So sings the wingless lark,” he replied, “who bears the apothecary’s bounty.”   He reached out for the bottle, then proceeded to peer at it a time, before twisting off the cap and upending about a third of it on his head,  Thereupon he regarded her as the rivulets of water snaked down the craggy wreckage of his face.

“Of thirst, of need doth her tone invoke, perforce suborned, and in giving, receives,” he mumbled as he clumsily closed the bottle. 

She watched him as he doused himself, and had to grin wide.  It was a perfectly sensible thing to do on such a hot and humid day, but very few would think to actually do it, let alone give in to that simple urge.  His words also took a moment to wrap her head around.  Archaic terms, old sentence structure, but somehow charming.  And he seemed harmless at the moment.  His words clicked through her head and it was a challenge for a moment to decipher them.

“Perforce suborned, sir?”  She kept her grin and shook her head a little.  “I…I didn’t ask you to do anything illegal.  This isn’t a bribe, I promise, just keep the water and drink.  It’s so hot out today, it’s very easy to dehydrate.  Are you well?”  

[agentbrompton]

He batted at his chest a moment, then one misshapen fingernail caught and tore out some stitching; the bottle was slid under the fabric that hung loosely now, its size filling the gap so the remaining stitches were stressed, pulled taut. 

“A nature that receives by giving must take care not to give too much of the self away,” he murmured one eyelid slowly closing almost all the way but never quite making it.

“What humour doth physic, mi’lark,” he inquired of a sudden, those rheumy eyes suddenly seeming disturbingly focused as he regarded her, the top of the water bottle bobbing ever so slightly up and down in time with the arrhytmic span of his breathing.

[xcrashqueen]

yknow what’s honestly fucking weird?

my mum is complaining about my or other girls “indecent clothes” claiming “this is not what feminism was about in the 70s”

in turn, in the 70s, when my mum was young, my grandma would complain about her wearing pants and having a wild wavy unstyled mountain of hair

my grandma, in her day, got complaints from older local women about her skirts being too short (aka knee length)

hell, women born in 1880 or earlier would complain about younger women in the 1920s dressing too revealingly

like you’d think we would have learned to break the cycle and stop shaming younger generations of women for their appearance at this point

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

When all you see on the table are scraps, you fight for the scraps.  It’s harder to perceive, contextualize and internalize the greater power structure that is only leaving you scraps, that is hiding away the fact that there is so much more out there so you won’t strive for it.   So you won’t take it from them.

[zzapzzaptasersarchive]

Even demons know better than to give Darcy a lightsabre

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

((Lightsaber, eh?   ::schemes::))

[agentbrompton]

Evening in the Park || evil bydesignphilosphy

The day had been hot and muggy, a mild haze hung in the air of the city and made the buildings seem like weary sentinels, only able to stand by sheer force of will in the sweltering sunshine.  Days like this, the city itself seemed to have a bad attitude along with those that lived within it.  Tempers were short but everyone seemed to agree that it was too hot to actually do anything more than absolutely necessary.  She’d spent the rare day groundside - morning was for shopping and going to the market, going for things she needed both personally and for the kitchens on the ‘carrier…fresh herbs were a delight she couldn’t deny anyone.  

Afternoon found her out walking in Central Park.  Backpack full of bottled water and a few snacks and protein bars, she wandered and enjoyed Terra Firma, finally ending up under a large old oak tree that she’d visited before.  It overlooked one of the large ponds and reminded her quite a lot of one of the parks in London.  The sun was tracking lower and lower, starting to duck in and out of the buildings on the west side of Manhattan.  She could feel the temperature starting to go down already, and miracle of miracles, there was a breeze stirring the leaves in the canopy above her.  

She hadn’t brought Arthur on this walk, she wasn’t sure how he would deal with the heat, he’d stayed back in the apartment in his box of dirt.  She took a long drink of water and sighed happily.  Life on the ‘carrier wasn’t bad by a long shot, but sometimes one just needed to dig your toes into some turf and enjoy Mother Earth.  

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

A box within a greater box; tightly manicured as the dog walkers and as corralled as those walked.   The park was an echo, a shadow, a reminder of the greater dream that dwelt in drought within this hive of humanity - and other things.  One dream enfolded within the greater, and so few to realize it, distracted by the smaller seeming dreams all about.  He could appreciate the dream, even as he sought surcease of it, yet would not go.   Thus was even he, ever free, yet bound.

There were, of course, people that thought themselves people, and people that simply were, without thought on the matter.    He passed among them, and most heard only the faint susurrus of sound that seemed to accompany him wherever he went.   Few registered him - and of those who did, fewer yet did so with anything but a moment’s disdain or a carefully guarded fear; the sort that leads one to step around an approaching figure rather than pass through their space on one’s way.

He stumbled as his foot caught a discarded and partially crushed can of Mug root beer; one hand flailed outward, seeking purchase - finding none as he crashed to the grass-rich soil on the side of the path.   He twisted his head oddly, studying the new environs even as others passed, derisive comments murmured under their breath.   

He laughed at the pointless cruelty - at the barbs that tore more their makers than their victims; snatched a bit of grass and gnawed on it as he sidled, crablike, head lolling from side to side until it was not quite upright relative to his shoulders.   

He wibbled as he wobbled and somehow in all of this made forward progress, leaving the paths of the man-wrought illusion for the imago of the natural.   Toward a large, gnarled oak he meandered, though his path was far more reminiscent of Billy’s travels in the Family Circus than anything remotely resembling a straight line or geometric shape.  

The scent of the herbs caught his attention; he placed hands to the ground, turning a cartwheel with sleeves dragging behind; for his clothes were as ill-fitting as many considered the man himself; a woven together mash of fabrics all worn, giving something of the opposite of the idea of vibrancy; a discord of styles all born with equal disregard by their wearer.

His head lolled to the right as he cantered over toward the oak and its unusual scents; as he drew closer, others started to join the melange; rheumy eyes picked out the woman at the last and he drew his right hand into a fist and pressed it to the bottom of his jaw with slightly jarring force; the impact sending the chicken broth of ideas steeping in his skull scattering the way the letters of alphabet soup might move before a violent stroke of the spoon; and in the wake of such motion, they regrouped, forming new words, new sounds and patterns.

He lifted one hand, steepling the fingers against the empty air, as though another, unseen hand hung there to press against.  The other passed through the ragged tangledown that might be mistaken for hair at a sufficient distance; indeed parts of it probably still were technically such; but the hair, much like the wardrobe, much like the man, seemed suited to no whim or purpose; scarred, patches missing here and there, curling here, wavy there, frizzed in spots.

Thus this ill-suited mannequin came to regard the woman, an odd sort of wonder in his rheumy-eyed gaze; yet no words slipped from those worm-like lips, no coy comments or poorly disguised flirtations; just that stare of oddly rapt intensity; awaiting … something.

[agentbrompton]

The motion in her periphery caught her attention, and she turned cool green eyes towards the man approaching her.  He…was a real character by all visual accounts, and she took him in slowly.  Comic or tragic character, that’s the question.  He had stopped a short distance away  and was gazing on her as if he anticipated …something.  His clothing was odd and in tattered disarray, his hair was a mess (what there was of it),, and he looked to have vision trouble past what his glasses could likely correct.  But still, there he stood, and she mentally tensed herself in case something went very wrong very fast.  

He couldn’t physically hurt her; her bróðir’s gift would make sure of that.  Still, she didn’t want to tussle with him, so she stayed calm and gave a tentative smile, relaxed and nodded slightly to him.  “Sir…good evening,” her slight midlands English accent carried on the warm air to him.  “Is there something I can do for you?  Are you alright?”  She thought a short moment and pulled a fresh pint bottle of water from her backpack, offered it to him outstretched. 

“Here, it’s been a hot day, take this if you’re thirsty?”  

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

“So sings the wingless lark,” he replied, “who bears the apothecary’s bounty.”   He reached out for the bottle, then proceeded to peer at it a time, before twisting off the cap and upending about a third of it on his head,  Thereupon he regarded her as the rivulets of water snaked down the craggy wreckage of his face.

“Of thirst, of need doth her tone invoke, perforce suborned, and in giving, receives,” he mumbled as he clumsily closed the bottle. 

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

ooc

Sorry I’ve been absent - in hospital atm

[agentbrompton]

Evening in the Park || evilbydesignphilosphy

The day had been hot and muggy, a mild haze hung in the air of the city and made the buildings seem like weary sentinels, only able to stand by sheer force of will in the sweltering sunshine.  Days like this, the city itself seemed to have a bad attitude along with those that lived within it.  Tempers were short but everyone seemed to agree that it was too hot to actually do anything more than absolutely necessary.  She’d spent the rare day groundside - morning was for shopping and going to the market, going for things she needed both personally and for the kitchens on the ‘carrier…fresh herbs were a delight she couldn’t deny anyone.  

Afternoon found her out walking in Central Park.  Backpack full of bottled water and a few snacks and protein bars, she wandered and enjoyed Terra Firma, finally ending up under a large old oak tree that she’d visited before.  It overlooked one of the large ponds and reminded her quite a lot of one of the parks in London.  The sun was tracking lower and lower, starting to duck in and out of the buildings on the west side of Manhattan.  She could feel the temperature starting to go down already, and miracle of miracles, there was a breeze stirring the leaves in the canopy above her.  

She hadn’t brought Arthur on this walk, she wasn’t sure how he would deal with the heat, he’d stayed back in the apartment in his box of dirt.  She took a long drink of water and sighed happily.  Life on the ‘carrier wasn’t bad by a long shot, but sometimes one just needed to dig your toes into some turf and enjoy Mother Earth.  

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

A box within a greater box; tightly manicured as the dog walkers and as corralled as those walked.   The park was an echo, a shadow, a reminder of the greater dream that dwelt in drought within this hive of humanity - and other things.  One dream enfolded within the greater, and so few to realize it, distracted by the smaller seeming dreams all about.  He could appreciate the dream, even as he sought surcease of it, yet would not go.   Thus was even he, ever free, yet bound.

There were, of course, people that thought themselves people, and people that simply were, without thought on the matter.    He passed among them, and most heard only the faint susurrus of sound that seemed to accompany him wherever he went.   Few registered him - and of those who did, fewer yet did so with anything but a moment’s disdain or a carefully guarded fear; the sort that leads one to step around an approaching figure rather than pass through their space on one’s way.

He stumbled as his foot caught a discarded and partially crushed can of Mug root beer; one hand flailed outward, seeking purchase - finding none as he crashed to the grass-rich soil on the side of the path.   He twisted his head oddly, studying the new environs even as others passed, derisive comments murmured under their breath.   

He laughed at the pointless cruelty - at the barbs that tore more their makers than their victims; snatched a bit of grass and gnawed on it as he sidled, crablike, head lolling from side to side until it was not quite upright relative to his shoulders.   

He wibbled as he wobbled and somehow in all of this made forward progress, leaving the paths of the man-wrought illusion for the imago of the natural.   Toward a large, gnarled oak he meandered, though his path was far more reminiscent of Billy’s travels in the Family Circus than anything remotely resembling a straight line or geometric shape.  

The scent of the herbs caught his attention; he placed hands to the ground, turning a cartwheel with sleeves dragging behind; for his clothes were as ill-fitting as many considered the man himself; a woven together mash of fabrics all worn, giving something of the opposite of the idea of vibrancy; a discord of styles all born with equal disregard by their wearer.

His head lolled to the right as he cantered over toward the oak and its unusual scents; as he drew closer, others started to join the melange; rheumy eyes picked out the woman at the last and he drew his right hand into a fist and pressed it to the bottom of his jaw with slightly jarring force; the impact sending the chicken broth of ideas steeping in his skull scattering the way the letters of alphabet soup might move before a violent stroke of the spoon; and in the wake of such motion, they regrouped, forming new words, new sounds and patterns.

He lifted one hand, steepling the fingers against the empty air, as though another, unseen hand hung there to press against.  The other passed through the ragged tangledown that might be mistaken for hair at a sufficient distance; indeed parts of it probably still were technically such; but the hair, much like the wardrobe, much like the man, seemed suited to no whim or purpose; scarred, patches missing here and there, curling here, wavy there, frizzed in spots.

Thus this ill-suited mannequin came to regard the woman, an odd sort of wonder in his rheumy-eyed gaze; yet no words slipped from those worm-like lips, no coy comments or poorly disguised flirtations; just that stare of oddly rapt intensity; awaiting ... something.

[evilbydesignphilosphy]

ooc

Frustrating.   This muse speaks to me but I cannot seem to get him out there so he can interact with others.   Been with the same 40 followers for years now.

[animatronicfish-deactivated2015]

Who do you ship my muse with?