#stupid elfses

[terminalpolitics]

Thewowbitch

Has gone back and scrubbed all those posts that I linked to. It's for the best. Some of them were truly disgusting.

Unfortunately, I accidentally screenshotted all of them out of habit.

But, I am glad Thewowbitch has taken this chance to turn over a new leaf and stop shaming RP. I wish them luck with their new pursuits.

[terminalpolitics]

People like Calleo and Thewowbitch

Are always talking shit about others but, when they get confronted about it, they just run and hide. What kind of PA beta scumbag must you be to only be able to say something behind the other party's back. If you can't handle the repercussions of your words than don't start shit. I just have no time for fakes who swagger hurriedly away from a fight they started.

[terminalpolitics]

A note on responding to Thewowbitch's posts

We are now unintentionally responsible for the majority of Thewowbitch's likes on any given post. What happens is that someone will reblog it, diss him and then others will like it, but that shows up under his notes as just Slaine likes this.

When a body opens one of those posts he might think, "Damn, lots of people liked this" and he won't be able to see where the likes are really directed -- especially if Thewowbitch had the original reblogger on ignore.

So, I think it is safe for us to reblog Thewowbitch with our added comments at the moment, but we might want to lay off on liking each other's work in that context. We wouldn't want to make the blog look more successful than it is.

Soon, it won't even be worth reblogging because we will be giving him more attention than he'd get anyway. He seems to have about half a dozen people left that actually support his hate.

[terminalpolitics]

An open letter to Thewowbitch

Hi,

I'm the guy who wrote 80% of the nice anons you posted yesterday that offered support for your blog or said nice things about you. Some of them were pretty obvious jokes, but I wrote a few "sincere" ones that seemed legit and you responded in a really heartwarming way to them.

Sadly, none of it was true. People outside your circle of followers don't like your blog. Almost no one has heard of it, and those that have just figure you are another douchebag running an off-brand RPL.

So, when you say things in response to my fake anons like:

Thank you very much! When all this first started happening I felt a bit bad because I know what I do doesn’t make everyone happy and I was worried that I really was a massive cunt the whole time and they were right. But since then so many people have come to me with their own stories of what these people have done to them, even if I am an awful person, at least I’m not them. So thank you for your kind words and I hope everything worked out!

It is kind of sad. First, all those bad things you heard about the Queen of Lordaeron and crew being racist -- well, I wrote those too. I am disappointed you didn't publish the one about the Milfalorian guild in SW:TOR, though, which was 100% accurate. The truth is the Queen of Lordaeron, and all the people that you and your half a dozen followers refer to with misogynist or homophobic names, are just regular RPers.

You can try to find a reason for why they dislike you and you can pretend that they are afraid that you will make fun of them but nobody is scared of you. You aren't very good at being snarky.

The worst thing is that you want to be liked. We can see that from your responses (don't bother being all I was being sarcastic or whatever). You want people to like you and respect you, so why did you pick the sleaziest most parasitic approach to trying to get e-cred?

Look at people like Lanuria - all that negative bullshit has dogged them from game to game. What did they gain by it? A few minutes in the spotlight and a few years trying to live it down.

The reason that people don't like your blog isn't because there is something wrong with them -- it's because there is something wrong with what you are doing. You are trying to make a name off shaming your fellow RPers.

Now, when people shame and insult you, you complain and say it is unfair but you are in the shaming business. The people that you attack are just trying to RP. You cannot claim your bullying is protected speech. You strike first and we strike harder. It's a fair game.

Luckily for you, your blog is so small-time that you could drop it and go find something else to do and it wouldn't follow you. If you keep trying to double down and "I'm gonna fight these bullies who are trying to stop me from bullying" then you will end up being yet another burnout pariah sitting on the sidelines and wondering why you never get picked for the team.

I'm saying this now because while I had a lot of fun feeding you posts yesterday and using you to spread information about peeps I don't like, it can't continue. You need to find something useful or constructive to do with your time.

And you definitiely need to turn off anonymous asks. If people really do support you like you think then they will sign up with their own names. The anon system is too easy to abuse and to use for score-settling because it has no oversight. You post any bullshit that comes your way.

Ditch anons. Instead of having people send "lolbadrp" profiles that they find, have them submit their own profiles for help. Then you can offer your critique and suggestions and you can know that you aren't being a dirtbag about it.

That's the trade-off and I think you know it. You could run a helpful blog where you give people advice about their own work, but you realize that while you wouldn't get any flak you also wouldn't get as much attention.

Decide if you want to build your rep on being scummy or if you actually believe the shit you say about the value of critique to writers. If you are any good at it, then you will gain not only positive feelings but some actual friends.

Later.

[terminalpolitics]

"Doing it right"

I can't believe that there are people out there that still use this phrase in a non-ironic way.

But it's okay, because my friends do it right.

[terminalpolitics]

The Duck Boy: A Death Knight's Fairy Tale

Here is a short story I wrote for my Death Knight a long time ago. It's been posted in many places since, so you may have seen it before. Be warned, not all fairy tales have happy endings...

  "The Duck Boy"

I, Gunnar the Unkempt, do write this account at the behest of my master, the knight Silverarm, in this Winter’s Veil, year of the Battle of Light’s Hope Chapel. Having been thus commissioned I shall hereby recount the Tale of the Duckboy and such diverse related happenings as to the best of my recollection for the edification and education of the members of our knightly order. By my duty as scribe, squire and ghoul do I swear that this exposition shall be accurate and unadorned in the main if slightly adjusted in the particulars. Total honesty is a virtue in butchers and magistrates whilst a sin ever so grave in young wives and authors. And now begins the tale….

One morning while so traveling there came to us a sound like bawling from off the road. My lord Silverarm did reign in his grim charger and dismount, beckoning me also to investigate.

There, beside the road, we espied a young lad some six or seven years and with him a cantankerous old duck of more moult than meat. The boy sat, head in hands crying most piteously.

“Child,” addressed my master, “why do you cry?”

“Oh, sir,” says the boy, “mine is a hard lot – for I am tasked with the murder of my only friend.”

“Speak on, boy.”

“Sir, my mother and sister live in yon hamlet and we have neither food nor coin so shall starve. My mother has instructed me to kill this, our duck, my constant companion from farthest memory.”

“To be sure,” I observed, “it is not much of a duck.”

“Pray, do not malign this bird, friar, but he has been my one source of joy in this dark world, and has kept me warm and jolly as I snuggled into his down on many a frigid night. And now, I must with my father’s axe do him murder.”

  My master took up the axe indicated by the boy and a great war weapon it was too – with many a notch and repair and a squadron crest on the heft.

“Where is your father, boy?”

“He is fallen, sir. His body was lost to the Scourge.”

For a long while my lord Silverarm did study the axe. And then as if waking from a deep revelry, turned to the boy and said, “Harm not this bird.”

And so saying he closed his eyes and stretched out his hand and from deep in the wood went up a squeal of such wrath that the boy and the duck stood petrified until, drawn by my master’s will, an enormous boar erupted from the bush. The boar frothed and tusked the ground and stamped, until my master closed his fist and the swine did gasp and its eyes rolled into its head showing naught but the whites and so it expired.

“Child, use this boar to feed your family. It should serve you through this dark season. This I give you but more I cannot do.”

And with that we left the child and his duck and went about our way.

  The following week we passed again this spot, which had marked itself by that strange encounter in our memories. Drawing near, again we heard the sound of anguish and the quack of a duck.

Beside the road sat the boy. The duck stood at his feet looking on with concern.

“Child,” whispered my master, “why do you cry?”

“Oh, sir, it is a hard thing! By your bounteous provision have I fed my mother and sister, yet, the food provides no protection against the cold night or frosty morn. My mother has sent me to town to give my duck up for to be plucked and turned into a warm winter blanket. How can it sit with me to see my boon companion defeathered and tormented so, and then to try and take pleasure from his humiliation and undoing?”

“I grant you, it is a hard thing,” said my master and he closed his eyes in thought.

When he opened them again he broke the living branch from a tree and ran his hand over it. I marveled as it darkened and the life ebbed from it only to burst forth again in a bright blue flame which ran the course of the bough but consumed it not.

“Child, use this brand to warm your family. It should serve you through this dark season. This I give you but more I cannot do.”

And with that we left the child and his duck and went about our way.

  So in our travels did we pass yet another week before coming again to the spot where first we had met the boy and his duck. Before my lord had even stopped his dark steed we could hear from the brush the sound of sobbing and tears.

Going to investigate we came across the boy sitting on a mound of old stone, his beloved duck in his lap.

  “Child, why do you cry?”

“Oh, sir,” sniffled the boy, “is there no respite from evil in this life? Though your boar has fed my family and your magic branch has warmed them through the cold night this season has not yet done its worst to us. We have been judged in arrears of our taxes, your honor, and must pay the penalty or be separated, my mother and sister forced to servitude and myself into serfdom.

“My mother has commanded me to take my duck to town and sell him for the gold to buy us freedom – but, sir, how can it be that I trade the bondage of my one friend in this unfeeling world for my own freedom? How can it be that I make of him a slavey and a chattel that I may enjoy my liberty?”

The ducked quacked meditatively. It had no answer to this question.

  My lord Silverarm motioned for the boy to stand and remove himself from the mound on which he sat and then, closing his eyes, he hummed a strange tune.

The boy and duck watched in wonder as the rocks and earth did shift before them and the mound did open revealing the skeleton of a great man in golden armor. This corpse did gyre in its newly-opened grave and the bony hands reached up and from its skull plucked a golden crown which then did they extend towards my master.

He took the crown and the grave shuddered and disappeared beneath the earth and lay once more undisturbed.

“Child, use this crown to ransom your family. It should serve you through this dark season. This I give you but more I cannot do.”

And with that we left the child and his duck and went about our way.

  A week passed and we two travelers did find ourselves once more on the same road on which we had left the boy and his duck. From habit, we stopped our train and listened but no quack or sigh did we hear – only a joyful whistle and the sound of men.

My lord Silverarm decided to rest his demonic horse and at the same time investigate this happy noise.

Passing through the underbrush we encountered a small group of workmen in a clearing. They stood, shirtless, stamping out the embers of a large bonfire.

My master greeted them and asked if they had knowledge of a sad young boy who traveled this way in the company of a duck.

“Aye, your worship! That child is known to us. He is, more to the point, the matter of our business here. It is a strange tale but if you shall have the time I might relate it.”

My lord Silverarm bid him do so.

  “It is a queer manner of story, truth be told. The boy was a poor one, his family left impoverished when the father went to the wars and got himself slaughtered. We in the village had no high hopes that the three, mother, daughter and son would live out the winter – but such is life. Some die and others live.

“But one day the boy comes home from hunting, we suppose, with the prize of a grand boar, which treated and preserved was more than enough to last a family of three through the cold season. Good luck to them, we said. In every barrel of rotten apples is sure to turn up a fresh one.”

The workman paused to drink from a skin.

  “Bounty is a strange thing. It gets people to thinking, you see. Why, the family was poor, who would take note of them? But when they are feasting on boar and your own are heating bread to scare the weevils – well, as I said, it gets people thinking.

“Word went around, as it is wont to do, and the next thing you know the magistrate is a beating on the door demanding taxes, back-taxes and front-taxes. Well now, we thought, that shall settle their ham.”

  My master listened gravely and ne’er did blink.

  “And then one day the boy returns home and cries ‘mother, we are saved for I bring you a treasure!’ and what a treasure it was! A gold crown, fit for a king, well, now that set the tongues to wagging – but before we could look close into it, in the dead of night, out skip the mother and sister with the golden crown!

“Oh, you would never have thought a boy could carry on so!”

The workman slapped his thigh with mirth and drank again. We said nothing.

  “All through the next day, once the boy realized he was well and truly abandoned by his slut mother and sister (I have heard they opened a house of entertainment in the city) he sat with that decrepit duck and bawled and cried and sobbed and greeted until you would have thought he’d blow out to nothing like a storm. But then he began to say strange things…

“He told us all how his magical friend would come to him and save him as he had done before. At first we thought this was just a child’s foolishness but he became irate and said he would prove it and ran to his hovel and fetched out a brand that burned with witch-fire. He called it a miracle, the little blasphemer.

“’You see?’ he screamed. ‘This is the work of my friend! He rides a great black horse that breathes flame and when it stamps the earth smoulders! My friend shall save me, just as he has before. It was he that tore open the ground and called forth the dead king to give me his treasure. My friend shall come for me and my duck and he shall take us away to a better place.’”

The workman sighed. He looked to the scorched ground where the bonfire had been and satisfied his companions had put it out he turned his attention once more to us.

  “A better place? That is for the theologians to decide. A warmer place -- that I can assure you. It had been quite a while since we had a proper witch burning in these parts. It does the community good in my view.

“Until the end the little heathen called out for his magic friend.  Foolish child, but such is the devil’s work.”

  We spoke not and the workman went back to his task. Fragments in the char let off a greasy smoke.

Mounting his great warhorse, my master turned once more to the men and asked, “What became of the duck?”

“Well, your honor, it seemed a shame to waste a perfectly good barbeque. One wouldn’t have judged it on looks but she were a succulent old bird still.”

  We left that place then and have not passed it since nor do I think we shall travel that road again.

[terminalpolitics]

RP Fashions

I can see from the MRP bashing blogs that the "correct" way to describe your character is with words like normal, average, and regular.

I figured we could improve on some old descriptions from books with these new guidelines:

His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

-Description of Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet

Improved version:

His very person and appearance were such as to be uninteresting to the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was 5 feet and 9.2 inches, and so moderately average that he seemed to be indistinguishable from the norm. His eyes were of the usual sort; and his unremarkable, nose-like nose gave his whole expression an air of regularity and expectedness. His chin, too, had no discernible abnormalities. His hands were mostly clean but not manicured, and he was possessed of a commonplace delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his run-of-the-mill philosophical instruments.

Better already.

[terminalpolitics]

"Liking" Hate

So, when I have time, I scan all the shitty RP-bashing Tumblrs to see if there is anything worth engaging on. And in all these "lol RP" posts there are always the same devoted few showering assery with Likes.

"RP on WRA is sooooooo bad roflwofl!"

Like.

"Look this guy is Rping as a Half-elf! Sobadno!"

Like.

"OMG, can u belief that someone is claiming to have magical powers?! I am suffocated with how wrong!!!"

Like.

I wonder if, at the end of the day, these guys look back on the list of likes and come to the realization that the thing they hate is RP. When all your energy and intellect is put into bashing RP, or worse, celebrating the bashing of RP, then what role do you fill in an RP community?

RP is a collaborative activity. That doesn't mean that other people provide the RP and you provide the ridicule.

But I really shouldn't say mean things about people who enjoy belittling the RP of other people. That's like totes unfair and hypocritical right? Because while they should be allowed to mock innocent people that are engaged in a positive activity, others shouldn't be allowed to call-out suckers that try to insult the very thing we are here to take part in.

It's not me being a "crusader" that makes you a douchebag. I wouldn't need to point you out to anyone. You signed your name on the rolls of RP server parasites when you clicked Like.