#[ it's an additional weight that dictates and ties /weight/ to what is done and seen in life. what is /lived/. ]

[iniziare]

Kafka crossed my thoughts tonight at random, and so I wanted to re-post a little something here, with some minor edits thrown in. I just think it's often overlooked how... many human elements they've tied into her. A hungering sense of curiosity, the inherent sense of longing that clings to her being like a fever, and how she's caught (very humanly so) between the belief of we are tied to fate and thus it shall be, and the insistence on choice and how the Trailblazer seems to be inherently representative of its existence. And then I think of what being 'human' entails, and one could argue that it represents the experience of life, before one's end by the hand of destiny/fate. Is that... why she's so enthralled by all these human concepts? Because she's so firmly tied to fate? Yes, I still linger in the thought that she bears strong connections to fate, there are too many hints at the Moirai to me to ignore. But it's not even that, it's her Spirit Whisper, it's that her wanted poster made by the Devils that she used to hunt on her home of Pteruges-V, had to describe the ability and what it does— which tells ms that it's not native to there. But— I'm getting sidetracked, this isn't about any kind of potential nature that is far from humanity, it's about the evidence, even if she may turn out not to be inherently human at some point in the future of HSR, that she is drawn to, portrays and in some form, lives, very human concepts. And one of the ways I tried to make that clear before, was by talking about her in relation to her violin— or more specifically: the presence of its absence, the latter being which I will always firmly believe to be the eternal overarching narrative of Kafka's character. Any way, onto the babble:

I'll forever remember looking into the notes of someone's playthrough of HSR's first scenes, which is just something I like to do because you never know what kind of little treasures you might find. And there was a violinist tucked away in there, who I'd also seen in the notes of her main trailer, commenting on the intense accuracy of the movement of her fingers. And then on top of that, how they've usually been let down by the details when other games have tried to simulate it as well, but it was more so done to iterate how intentional this must've been for Hoyo to have focused on its accuracy so much.

So in that sense, I think it's close to a given that she knows how to play it, similarly to how I believe that she is someone who also plays or has played the piano. Where I differ however, is that I don't believe that she actually owns a violin at present, nor is she seeking to obtain one by her own means. Moreover, what and where I think the 'mimicking' comes from, actually, is from her memories and the emotional attachment that she once held for these instruments in them. Kafka's character, to me, revolves around and thrives within two concepts, that of intimate longing and that of loss (the pearl earring, the broken winged butterfly pin, and Blade's character story to name some) which plays intricately into the former. Now for me, her connection to the violin and the piano (primarily the former) play wonderfully into representing both of these, and thus can be drawn into these prevalent topics across the board for her incredibly easily. In simple terms, I think that there is a sense of longing to play them. Now, I feel confident in noting that Kafka does not come across as one who, if she had access to (in this case) a violin of her own, that she would crave to play it so intensely all the time, that when drawn from it for even the briefest of time, that she would enact the part of playing one during her separation from it. No, I think she's actively choosing not to obtain one, for one reason or another. Perhaps it's a memory that plays into the loss that her character seems to stray towards, or perhaps it's a lack of something else; I don't quite yet dare say. But there's something oddly wistful about it, if you look past the surface. All in all, I think her little moments of mimicking and humming, makes for an incredibly interesting "little" tidbit to me. It reminds me of something I wrote in an older post last year:

(...) And yet, and yet, I actively think if she were to find herself in a hotel room, even on her own, and there would be a piano right there— I can see her fingers tracing over the keys so very clearly, even as if she were touching the keys to play and yet she would never press down.

I still stand by this to this day. It's the ache to do something again, and yet for one reason or another, you can't bring yourself to do it. Whether it feels wrong, or there's something missing, something or someone; it doesn't matter, it's a longing of some kind. It really is the overarching topic and/or concept that I see in her character, and the fact that she's tied to such an inherently fragile instrument, only further solidifies it in my brain. But in that, I also feel a deep sense of melancholy when I think of her and that violin. And it plays into all of this, of course, but also the fact that I genuinely see no evidence in canon at present that tells me that she has one, and we know she could obtain one if she so wanted to,but she doesn't. Which tells me, on some level, that she doesn't want one. Which then has me entertain the concept of... if one were gifted to her, would that be different? Would that offer the person who gifted it to her a glimpse that no one else could ever get? The answer is a very likely yes, but I can't see it being gifted by most by any means; it'd need to be by someone who could come to grasp the significance of one, put in the appropriate research, who would know where to go, who to speak to, where to find the significance. And that, isn't most people.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with RONAN IVARSSON, who is THIRTY-NINE years old. He is often called RICHARD III by the MONTAGUES and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW: ABLEISM, DEATH

There are those who try, in vain, to shake off the shackles of DESTINY – and there are those who embrace it. What else is there to do but embrace what God has dictated, what the Devil rejoices in when he knows that another soul is meant to fall? The path was laid out before him, made to blister his feet and remind him of who to blame, before he had ever taken his first breath. It could be said that Adam was to blame for having fallen for Eve’s wiles, but it would be easier, instead, to begin with a loveless woman and a WEAK-WILLED man. They were married in the eyes of God, thought to be a pairing that was ardent and true. But the woman was nothing more than a POOR, BORED soul who had felt something akin to love for a half-moment, whereas the weak-willed man wanted nothing more than a warm body to lose himself in. There was also the additional stipulation that, should he marry a woman of great repute, then the inheritance that was hard-earned by his parents should be passed to him. A clause that was meant to keep him on the straight and narrow, when really all he had to do was wait for them to be lowered into their graves. The wait was not long. Nor was the time that he spent with the wife and MANGLED son that had so foolishly thought to call themselves his family.

They weren’t a family, so much as they were a house full of farces and barely-living corpses. Ronan’s mother seemed repulsed by him, for reasons unbeknownst to the small boy, whereas his father seemed to barely remember that they were associated by him. His father paraded his LOVERS about, men of all ages that seemed more trouble than they were with – with their expensive habits involving white powders and luxurious liquors. But then his mother began to grow bitter, the nothingness that was inside of her began to grow dark and fester. He sat atop the steps each night as she would make sure that her husband would drink his warmed tea, to ensure that the hangovers from the night before would not be so bad as the last. Again and again, she would press the cup to his lips and pour it down his throat. One night a lover tried to stop his mother, so then Ronan – YOUNG, FATED Ronan – took a bottle to his head. When the scarlet pooled onto the rug, there was no longer that sordid feeling of discontent hanging over him. Instead, there was only TRIUMPH, only fascination and the woeful absence of regret. This path had been laid out before him, and he was content to walk it, just as the Son of God had done before him. But the Son of God had not carried the body of a young man out in mangled pieces, then unceremoniously BURY him in a place so decrepit that only rats were content to wander there.

None did, but more bodies fell anyway, the first being his father with poison beset in his blood. The last being his mother, who passed quite mysteriously in much the same way. The rest were cast about the city, not necessarily by his hand, but by his name. With the money that was given to him, he, like a greedy dragon, began to hoard more – taking it when it was not given to him, stealing it when all else seemed to slip away. There were those that felt PITY for him, the poor IMPAIRED man that was orphaned at too young an age. There were those that seemed to fear him, for that unidentifiable darkness that  precededhim and his uneven, twisted gait. God had plucked these stars from the sky and placed them in his name, so who was he to deny these instincts that served him so well -- that seemed to make the world bend itself to his weight? And bend it did, for he was sitting atop a throne before long -- bearing the title of councilman when the only counsel he listened to was his own. The city itself seemed to CRY OUT against him, but he heard them not. It was not because his heart was made of stone, though, it was because he enjoyed, far too much, how the dilapidated organ seemed to squeeze merrily when they said his name. He placated them with lies, hissed at them for persecuting him for circumstances beyond his control, for the pain that he endured that could make him so wretched and inane. God made sure that his wily words would ensure that they were tame. See, he wished to say to those blundering fools in the streets, this was all fated – how else could I achieve such fame?

There was no one who went unnoticed by those higher than he, though. Those so tightly knit within their own WAR that it was not often they descended from their thrones to look upon the mortals who built themselves up and declared all else beneath him. It was the bodies that they had found and lorded over his head, each one more incriminating than the last – sloppy work done by hands only fit to hold silver spoons. They inducted him with IRREVERENT ceremony, nothing more than a sneer and a curt delivery of the terms of his loyalty, uncaring of who they stood before, even if it was a man that had a sizable amount of the city tied to his name. Councilman or not, he was still a man, and God had determined that his path should lead this way – besides, it would not be long before there were more beneath his weighted hand and heavy frame. But he had been instilled with a singular VICE: insatiable GREED, which means that he was discontent to bend his knee to one that he considered lesser, unworthy of their name. God had made it clear: he would recreate the Montagues in the Ivarsson image and name.

LUCIEN IVARSSON: Husband. There are those who get married for love -- and those who get married in search of it. Lucien was a man of connections but humble beginnings, cunning and quiet, as well as a pillar of Verona’s community. He was reputable as well as protected, his resources as unending as the coin in Ronan’s pocket. For a moment, when their eyes locked, Ronan had thought there might have been warmth in his cheeks. That perhaps he could want for something more than himself. But a handful of days later, that fleeting, whimsical thought was snatched away like a butterfly in a crow’s beak. Dead, crushed, and unmourned for. There is no love lost, to be sure, but the councilman tries to keep Lucien close and tamed, biding his time as he ties their names together so that they shall never be without one another. Ronan knows to keep one’s friends close, and one’s enemies closer. It is only a matter of time before Lucien becomes his enemy after all -- since Ronan was the one to put his mother in her grave. Allora, should the stars will it, one of them will meet their end soon. 

LORETTA DELLUCI: Shadow. He’s seen the woman on occasion, the woman that lives across from one of Lucien’s many apartments ( although, to be sure, that particular one is his husband’s favorite ). The way that she looks at him, holds his gaze and lets it sit there, heavy and sure, unnerves him in the oddest of ways. Perhaps it is because he is so rarely unraveled, perhaps it is because he is not used to not knowing why. It didn’t seem to be because of his odd gait or the fact that he was one of the recognizable faces of Verona, not from what he could gather. The American woman couldn’t possibly know the intricacies of the inner-city politics that made him so renowned. Regardless, the smallest interactions with her leave him chilled. He had never quite understood what people meant when they said they felt chills along their spines. He always scoffed at when others would respond that it was because there was someone walking on their grave. Now, though...now he understood. 

RENZO CAROZZA: Secret. There is nothing wrong with seeking satisfaction elsewhere when one can’t find it in the person that sleeps beside them. That was what Ronan had been forced to do when Lucien’s wandering steps took them elsewhere and they did not return in time to satisfy him. So Ronan began to frequent the Dark Lady -- under an alias of course, and with Mona’s promised discretion. It did not take her long to find the body that was the tantamount of satisfying all his whims. There was a catch, as there was to everything and anything in this damned, bloody city. The citizens, as ignorant and foolish as they were, still held public standards for the ones that they purportedly entrusted their city to. A councilman having an illicit affair that was paid for would not due him well, and it would most certainly break his poor Lucien’s heart. Although, Renzo is rather adept at making him forget all of that -- whether it be with his idle, sparkling conversation or the other things he does regarding his mouth. Renzo is his secret and one he is loathed to ever have to go without. 

SANTINO GALLO: Fascination. It’s like trying to decipher the patterns in the stars. There are moments where he thinks that he has Santino’s wants within his reach, is able to parcel them out and read the other man’s life like Galileo reading the skies. All too quickly though, Gallo slips away, running through his grasp in the same way that smoke slips from his lips -- as if it were never meant to fill his mouth with its weighty bitterness in the first place. It is not often that he wants, if at all. It is even rarer that he is denied his wants and it is because of this that Ronan can’t help himself from yearning for whatever it is that Santino withholds from him. The moment that he gets it, though, there is no doubt in his mind that the keening that stirs in his heart whenever the other man draws close will be smothered. It was with Lucien, was it not? So then why should this sad, pathetic man with that unnameable thing in his eyes be any different? Quietly, though, ever so softly, his heart may whisper that perhaps it will be different. Perhaps this will be something more.  

Ronan is portrayed by JOEL KINNAMAN and was written by ROSEY. He is currently OPEN.

[impudentmiscengenation]

The List

Since the portal accident when he was fourteen, he’d been keeping a record of all ghostly abilities that he exhibited as well as a short explanation of each power. At age fifteen, with everything that had happened and continued to happen, Danny was still just as confused about his ghost-half as he had been a year previously.

Maddie and Jack had offered to analyze his notes to determine whether or not his abilities were finite or if they would continue to grow along with him, which Danny had refused at first. When Danny discovered that he was continuing to add to his ever-growing and ever-changing list of powers, the boy consented to letting his parents look at his recordings. His only question was: “Am I finished getting new powers, or should I expect more?”

This was why both adults were slack-jawed in their lab, Danny and Jazz upstairs with their own business to attend to, staring at the expanse of paper before them. This was his latest, most recently revised list and it was more than impressive; organized by the amount of energy spent on each ability.

Accelerated Healing - The title underestimates the actual ability. Mortal wounds become not-so-mortal when in ghost form, unless the central-core energy is specifically targeted to be harmed or weakened. When in ghost form and with enough energy, anything but complete disintegration would bring me little (real) harm. In human form, I can tap into these healing abilities to a lesser extent of my ghost self. (Energy Drain - Instinctual)

Enhanced Sensation - All of my five senses are much more sensitive. (Energy Drain - Instinctual)

Ecto-Location (Ghost Sense) - When a ghost is nearby, a cold puff of air from my core is sent out (usually through my mouth). If I focus just slightly, I can also determine the ecto-signature of the particular ghost (provided they are familiar to me, i.e. Skulker, Box Ghost, etc.…) (Energy Drain - Instinctual) Invisibility - Manipulating both myself and the light around me, I can make it so I am unable to be seen without special equipment. (Energy Drain - Instinctual)

Intangibility - I can become abstract in a way that means I cannot be touched by any human-world item not meant for catching and/or harming ghosts. Tied slightly to invisibility; often, when intangible, I revert to a more corporeal form that is difficult to see (not impossible, but difficult nonetheless). (Energy Drain - Instinctual)

Flight - Probably because of the composition of ectoplasm in comparison to the Earth’s atmosphere, I can fly without accessories. (Energy Drain - Instinctual)

Body Modification - Includes (but probably not limited to): formation of a ghostly tail when flying at high speeds, ethereal fog materializing between body parts to stretch them, also I can shift to a rubber-like constitution at will. (Energy Drain - Instinctual to Low)

Ghost Stinger - If I react quickly enough, I can turn other ghost’s ectoplasmic energy against them and re-direct the energy. Often this produces an electrified effect on the ‘already-used’ (meaning the energy wasn’t mine to begin with) ectoplasm. If I choose to, I can use energy from my own core to amplify this effect. (Energy Drain - Low)

Ecto-Blasts - I can release energy from my ghostly core outwards in varying degrees of power (up to my control when coming to how much I want to release). (Energy Drain - Low to Moderate)

Ectoplasmic Manipulation - Instead of unfocused ectoplasmic energy, I can dictate what the energy from my core does. Shields, ecto-weapons, and bindings (like chain or rope) are my most often used forms of ectoplasmic manipulation. (Energy Drain - Low to Moderate)

Cryokinesis - Same premise as Ecto-Blasts, provided I concentrate on cold energy rather than unfocused ectoplasm. (Energy Drain - Low to Moderate)

Telekinesis - By surrounding an object (or objects) with a light form of ectoplasm, I can move things around. Size and weight of the item are factors, but longer distances make it harder to move the object(s). (Energy Drain - Moderate)

Ice Fog - If I slowly release cold energy from my core and with it releasing minute amounts of raw ectoplasmic energy, I can create a dense icy fog that decreases visibility around a particular area. (Energy Drain - Moderate to High)

Beacon - Using energy from my core, I can create a beacon of white-green light (from my hands) that attracts ghosts in the near vicinity-friend or foe. The stronger the beacon, the greater area the light reaches (meaning more ghosts the beacon calls to). They seem to be entranced by the light enough so that they’re unaware of their surroundings until I stop the beacon. (Energy Drain - Moderate to High)

Duplication - While making sure not to split my central core, I can manipulate the ectoplasm inside of me to create an identical copy of myself. The more core energy I use, the easier the copy is to maintain, the more durable they are, and the closer they are to. Side note, memory transfer is still a pain. Currently able to maintain 2 low-stamina clones, 1 moderate-stamina clone. (Energy Drain - High)

Ghostly Wail - Using the raw energy from my central core, I can create a series of ectoplasmic sound-waves that do severe damage to those in range of the attack. Also slightly inflicts damage on those not in direct attack but who are close enough to me that the screams penetrate their ears. (Energy Drain - High to Critical)

Arctic Howl - Using more central core energy with focus on its element of ice, a much more devastating effect to the original Wail can be achieved by the waves manifesting into a blizzard. The above effects of the original Ghostly Wail remain in place with the addition of the deep-freeze extending the attack radius. (Energy Drain - Critical)

Jack was the first to speak up.

“Heh… Who knew he was holding out on us this whole time?” He chuckled with an odd sort of smile, still unable to process that his fifteen-year-old son possessed the power that he did. Maddie was still gobsmacked as she flipped through the pages of edits that her son had done.

How he was doing abysmally in English class with this obvious mastery of the language was beyond her, for one thing. For another; after his list of powers, Danny had composed several theories and hypotheses that could put other doctors in the Paranormal sciences to shame. They were well thought out and carefully laid down with just enough proof threaded in with his theories that made them seem credible. The woman seated herself and blinked. Who knew? She’d always thought that it would be her daughter to follow in her footsteps, even when Jasmine had proclaimed her love for psychology. Jazz had been the one with the book-smarts and Danny had been the boy with his heart in anything he does. The way his notebook looked, however, told her that Danny wasn’t letting on nearly how intelligent he actually was; and it also told her that he had a knack for the thing that her and Jack had devoted their lives to. Rather than her eldest taking over the Fenton family tradition of ghost-hunting when they were gone, it seemed that her youngest was more than equipped with the knowledge to step up to the plate now.

For once in her life, Madeline Cassandra Fenton was truly stumped. She’d thought that she’d have an easy answer to her son’s question, but she was absolutely, 100% baffled just by what Danny was stating simply in his journal as if it were nothing. Jack was too, if his calculating expression told her anything. Despite his tactless way of approaching situations and his general lack of common sense, Jack Fenton was truly a genius and had a wonderfully creative mind; it was one of the many reasons that she’d fallen in love with him. He was deep in his ‘scientist-mode’, as he said it to be. Brows drawn together, the man nodded and looked to his wife.

“I think that he’s yet to apex, as far as these powers go. From the looks of things in here,” he referred to the generous edits made to the notebook-including the changing ‘energy-drain’ levels, “the longer he has these powers, the more control he has. Probably even the strongest attacks he has now will be nothing if we give it a couple years.” Jack grinned like a child in a candy shop. “Who knows, Mads, he might just be the most powerful ghost ever! And he’s only halfway there!” Maddie found herself smiling at her husband’s eagerness. “Maybe, Jack, maybe…” She trailed off in favor of looking over the book again while Jack began rambling about he and Danny teaming up to be a dynamic duo of sorts. Through all of the questions that his notebook had left her with, one thing was clear to Maddie when she finally left the lab that evening; she had really only just begun to learn the double-life her son had been leading for the past year and a half.

And she was more than ready to continue learning, as any good scientist would be.