Character Exploration - Bosabrieln's Grief

In our long-running D&D campaign, my Bard's mentor, lover, protector, was killed in battle.  Interested parties can read about it in the campaign write-up over at Obsidian Portal.

Their relationship was odd and wrong. When crafting my character many years ago, I fashioned him (Bosabrieln, "Bosie") after Lord Alfred Douglas - vain, conceited, fabulous, eventually evolving into the sociopath he was always destined to be - and his mentor/lover, Vianibrar, was flavoured with a heaping dose of Oscar Wilde.  I am nothing if not predictable.

Their history, in brief:  Bosie is the bastard half-elven son of a wood elf, who for political and spiteful reasons all his own, brought this poor infant back to their heavily xenophobic and isolated elven city after the human mother died in childbirth.  Fast forward through a little over a decade of Cinderella-esque maltreatment, and Bosie is rescued by his father's friend, Vianibrar, an iconoclastic Bard adventurer, also of this awful community, but free of their hatred.  Making good on some bargain he and Bosabrieln's father had made years ago, he takes the child under his wing, into his home, and begins schooling him in the Bardic arts. Skip ahead but a precious few years more, and they have become lovers and entered into this truly fucked up romantic relationship.  Vian is well over 300, and at the time Bosabrieln is 16 or 17.  It is squicky.  It is uncomfortable.  But gods, if it isn't the best thing that has ever happened to Bosabrieln ever, and it enables him for the first time to hit back at the community that raised him so cruelly, because have no doubt that his father and his father's family despise this arrangement.  From there, after Bosie ventures into the world to start making a name for himself, Vianibrar is always but a letter, a Sending, or a Dreaming away.  A constant resource, even when Bosabrieln's own skill begins to approach, match, and exceed Vian's own.

And now he's dead.  The session where he died was devastating and beautiful.  I cried actual real life tears (helps having a DM who is especially adept at creating mood and giving description).  It was everything I could have hoped for in this awful chapter for this character.  I know I'm not alone in revelling in masochism for my OCs.

We're playing again today, picking up in the aftermath.  In part to get myself back into that devastating headspace, and in part hearkening back to some of my theatrical training in character study because it just sounded like fun, I thought on the five stages of grief, and how each one manifests for Bosabrieln.  I present those to you now.  There's a lot of reference to in-game people, places, and happenings, which I will not detail below, though I'll again direct you to the Obsidian Portal wiki if you'd like to learn more about this campaign!

Denial

Bosabrieln does not dwell in denial for long. As the battle ends, the sounds of battle cease and the square stills, he looks around briefly for Vianibrar. He'd heard him, though his voice has been silent throughout it all, which is so unlike him. There's a moment where he thinks, Where did Vian fuck off to now, already making sure someone knows, that diva? At last his gaze settles on the crumpled coat over the harp and rapier. Though his brain cannot parse it, he knows, his stomach suddenly feeling bottomless, like falling. Those moments, minutes (hours?) become a blur. Maybe Gloomblight says something – they were fighting side by side after all when it happened – most likely Moridal, for he loved Vian too, in his way. Bosie makes his way to the effects across the square as though slowed by some unknown spellcaster, the world around him goes silent and all that exists are himself, the clothes, the Bardic weapons, and all that damn dust. So much dust, on the ground, in the air, in the folds of Vianibrar's coat. There's a brief moment where he instinctively moves to pick up the coat to shake it out, and that's when it hits. What the dust is. Who it was. Carefully, gently, purposefully, he folds up the coat, preserving as much of that fine grey powder as he can, wrapping it again in the travel blanket that he pulls from his pack (or did Moridal hand it to him?). This precious bundle assembled, he sets it back down, placing rapier and harp atop it. Still on his knees on the cold hard stones of the square, he throws his head back, looking to the heavens if he could only bring himself to open his eyes, and howls, abundant tears creating tracks through the ash that has caked onto his face, onto all their faces. This is the only time he cries for others to see.

Anger

He masks it well, can't let his public facade crack, he's got to be on. Privately, though, and this is where the Mansion becomes more a refuge than ever it had been, he's unhinged. Safe within the extradimensional walls of his design, Bosabrieln rails against the universe. He didn't realise he was doing it at first; although the Shields are all afforded accommodations in Scandshar following the Solstice tragedy, sleeping in the Mansion at this point seems comforting and familiar, the manifestation of his own mind creating this literal safe-house around him. He breaks things, throws them, rends tapestries, knowing they'll all rematerialise again the next time he needs them. The ghostly servants make no move to intervene, standing silently by until they are needed. No food is prepared.

Anger drives all of his actions for a time, when it is all so fresh and new. Biting arguments with Peacock and Drow witnesses (and others besides) during the Parliamentary inquest. His general conduct is tinged with bitterness. And of course, especially, the trip he makes to Nainimdul to inform their kin of Vian's demise, to memorialise him there, to make sure they don't just know, they understand it, and they own it.

Bargaining

He visits temples. Corellon and Bahamut. Corellon, to beseech Vianibrar's rest and comfort, his return if only their deeds were good enough. They drove the Drow back under, fought valiantly for good causes, and their lives, his and Vianibrar's, were ever focused on beauty and perfection, and if all of this isn't enough for Corellon to see fit that Vian might return to life, what more can he do, what greater deeds would be enough?

Bahamut's temple visits are different. The first, of course, is to ensure that the Claws' effects are brought home – if he does not escort these things himself, he certainly follows up in the days that come to pass. The subsequent visits are of quiet contemplation. He'd met the old man before and, as he reasons with himself, Bosabrieln has proven to be a formidable force in the world, one worthy of a visit. Should they ever meet again, he'd only want to drink and talk.

When he is a god, he promises himself, he'll find a way.

Depression and Isolation

As with his anger, there's not a lot of his outward face that belies his internal journey in this regard. He eats less, sleeps less. His is not a restless insomnia, wracked with thoughts of what could have been, what might have been done differently. Instead Bosabrieln begins to fill his nights with reading and learning, with music, acquainting his fingers, hands, and arms with Vian's harp, learning her weight, her sound, her idiosyncrasies. Sometimes he walks. If they're in a city, he cloaks himself to remain unknown and unbothered. If they're out in the world and he's not on watch, he'll beg his watchful companion's pardon, and set off in any direction. If they insist in sleeping in the Mansion he still slips out, returning by the morning.

He seeks out Valna, portaling to Argent if need be. They speak of gods, of life, of death, of responsibility. Sometimes they lie together companionably, quietly, hands intertwined. Looking up at the stars, just different enough this far North. He calms his mind, if only briefly, combing her hair, braiding it, pinning it. Things he'd do for her back when their lives were so much simpler. Of course, he never gives voice to any of this.

Acceptance

He never accepts it, not truly. He acknowledges it, of course, recognises the reality of Vianibrar's passing. But acceptance, in this, is not in his vocabulary.

There are firsts, and each one hits like a dragon's tail to the chest. The first time he thinks to contact Vian for advice. The first time he starts a Sending. The first time he finds himself reflexively smiling at a memory. The first time he thinks of Vian and it doesn't ache. The first time he dreams of Vianibrar, at first so like their Dream couplings, when they were both fully aware and present, but eventually deteriorating into incoherent nonsense in the way that only real dreams do. From that he awakes, still aroused, confused, and devastated, knowing that things between them will never be the same again, for there is no “between them”, there is only Bosabrieln.

This Is The End

Well, we're about T-20 minutes to the start of our final Changeling session.  The gaming group (also of Deadlands fame) will be staying together, although we'll be going on some sort of hiatus due to some GM family stuff.  All positive, just not conducive to gaming.

The game session will be up, as always, a million years after the last session, although I'll make some effort—I swear, guys!—to get it up a bit speedier this time, perhaps.

I've really enjoyed myself, and it is going to be really hard to leave behind this poor little tortured artist boy.  This character had been kicking around in my head for years.  I almost played him in another, though less moody, Changeling game when I was either just out of college or about to be at that point.  And that was approximately 7 years ago, so yeah...  He's had such a head canon life of his own, that M'Colleague and I have a nickname for him, Tennant Fae, because, well, he's always been "played by" David Tennant.

I'm a huge nerd.

So there you go.  This is the end.  Play us out, Jim...

If music be the food of PCs, play on

I picked up a really fantastic trick from art school which has served me exceedingly well in crafting characters for tabletop campaigns:  Mix tapes. 

Well, playlists, since we're in the future now.  I have made playlists for probably a good half dozen or more characters who I feel the driving need to bring to as much of a fulfilled realisation as I can manage.  As I think I've mentioned before, when crafting a character, I cannot just sit idly by and allow them to be a vessel for stats.  No, I craft my characters as extensions of myself, as fully-formed beings with loves, hates, desires, and deep histories whenever possible.  Pretentious and over thinking?  You bet, but that's my bag, baby.

When I am getting ready to sit down to roll some dice, I bust out that character's mix and listen to it.  Sometimes just a quick spin through the list, sometimes I'll bring it to work and listen all day.  I'll spend hours at my computer combing through my ever-growing collection of MP3s, sourcing anything I don't already have from M'Colleague or from reputable sellers of music, throwing everything and anything that has potential into one massive list, and then listening to each song to pare down a tight core of songs that evoke whatever it is about that character that I'm trying to maintain.

I find that the list length itself often speaks to the character as well.  Ruby from the late great Deadlands game maybe had 6 songs and could be listened to just on my commute home/to game - though she had depth, her defining characteristic for me was Woman Scorned, and I could accomplish that in just a few pieces.  Gareth's got an "album length" mix which takes me to and from work without repeats.  I tell his story through his mix, and am often left a bit emotionally fragile once finished.  Perfect for the dark game that our Story-Teller has given us.

Then there's Bosabrieln.  Bosabrieln is this ridiculous Half-Elf Virtue of Cunning Bard character that I play in the 4E campaign that M'Colleague has been running for almost three years (having Grown-up Lives means we end up a few months at a time between sessions sometimes).  Bosie, as he's known, was fashioned after Oscar Wilde's lover and famously awful person Alfred "Bosie" Douglas.  He's vain, beautiful, talented as fuck, and Oh So Misunderstood.  He's alarmingly androgynous (think Andrej Pejic or Anatoly Elgert) and not fickle at all about who shares his bed, or in what quantity.  Bosabrieln's play list takes up two CDs when burned.  Prick.

We're playing today!  This has been one of those long hiatus breaks, as life was taken over by work insanity (all the PCs are my coworkers) and by wedding planning.  Over the intervening months, I've discovered some "new" music for him and so I'm currently going through and switching out old songs for better ones.  Most notable among the new selections are RHCP's "Blood Sugar Sex Magik", Britney's "Work Bitch" and, naturally, Lady Gaga's "Applause".  To be honest, I could listen to "Applause" for hours on repeat and be ready to go with Bosie, but I like to try to keep what depth I can.

They say music soothes the savage beast, and they couldn't be more right.  I started my morning in a bit of a downtrodden rut, but now I'm overcome by feeling overwhelmingly FIERCE.  Bring it, Mr. DM, the bitch is back!

Initiation

So we're inducting a bunch of n00bs into roleplaying tonight.  This is going to be awesome.

Recently, a few friends had approached M'Colleague, expressing an interest in tabletop RPGs, as they had honestly never encountered them ever, aside from whatever cultural osmosis.  Having had gaming as a part of my life for ages, this is an exceedingly foreign thing to me. 

Of course, sitting down to play tonight will be just as foreign, if not moreso, to our mates.  This hit me hardest when, just a bit ago, I observed M'Colleague scanning the character sheets and setting aside the specific die types each new player will need.  Of course!  Presenting them with our jar o' dice and letting them rummage through it is one approach, but as this is meant to be an educational evening, it seems appropriate to say, "Here are the tools you need [dice and character sheets] let's take it from here."  If the game continues and levelling happens, along with the acquisition of bigger and better weaponry, dice rummaging can happen.

We're breaking them in with a 1st level 4th Edition D&D game that, according to M'Colleague, was partly inspired by that Red Riding Hood movie that came out a couple years ago.  While I can't recommend it purely for the story (it was just too cliché for my taste) the setting and atmosphere is really great, and I'm excited to see what comes of the game.

The players described what they wanted to play and characters have been pre-generated from there.  One wanted to play Arwen Undomiel, and she's ended up with an Eladrin Warlord.  Another wanted to also play an Elf, but to be a magic user, and good with the fightings; she'll be a Hexblade.  Our third newbie spotted Sir Bearington in a forum post and was inspired.  He's ended up with a Longtooth Shifter Druid.

I'll also be playing, since S.P. is running.  I was on the fence on what I should do.  The party already has a Leader, Striker, and Controller, so we were in need of a Defender.  I want to be helpful, but I also want to try something new.  And, let's be honest, I want to mess with my friends a little, because that's always fun.  So I drew up a Paladin.

A Pixie Paladin.

A Pixie Paladin who is pretty much a literal interpretation of Sunflash from The Mighty Boosh's Future Sailors live tour.  M'Colleague let everyone pick Themes and Backgrounds, so I took the theme of Seer (he's from the fyoocha after all) and the background Born On Another Plane (from a planet called Camden, in another dimension).  Check out Noel Fielding in glammy action as Sunflash here:

 Yeah, I'm a dick.

Game Reflections: Deadlands

We had a spectacular "season finale" to Deadlands last night.  I'll leave the summarising to M'Colleague, as he has been doing a spectacular job of it thus far, and I would hate to steal his thunder.

But yes, I do tend to think of some games in terms of TV show series.  I've been lucky in that a lot of the GMs (DMs, STs, whatever the given system calls them) with whom I play have a keen knack for knowing when to call a session for optimal cliff-hanger suspense, how to build that suspense in the first place, and how to craft a damn fine story world in which to play.  This Deadlands campaign has been no different.

M'Colleague (some of you know him as S.P. although he goes by many names) and I have reflected that this game and our player/character group is very Whedon-esque, to its great credit.  We've got a Priest with a Past, a Wealthy Boy Journalist, a Fallen Southern Belle, a Ne'er-Do-Well Drifter, a Mountain Boy with Too Many Guns (no such thing), and a Rough Lady Butcher (that's a woman who is a butcher, not Jack the Ripper).  We have a great group dynamic, and are able to banter with ease.

Or had. Father Seward, Rufina the butcher, and Jake the drifter died spectacularly last night while we attempted, and succeeded, at stopping the apocalypse.  I'm sure it won't be the last time, but it does give one a certain sense of accomplishment going into the tail end of a hellacious work week.  Though the players themselves aren't leaving the game for good, I wonder how we will recover when half our party is suddenly replaced with a few well placed newcomers.

I'm not normally one to get terribly attached to characters that aren't my own (and even then only so much), but I have found myself reflecting on our group's loss throughout the day today.  It occurred to me that this hit me just as hard as when a favourite character snuffs it in a TV show I've become invested in.  You know the feeling (Spoilers ahead):  Charlie on LOST, Wash at the end of Serenity, Ianto in Torchwood.  Which is to say, not very hard hitting in the grand scheme of things, but that's emotionally-invested fandom for you.

My character, Ruby "Not Scarlet O'Hara" O'Flahertie, lost both a father figure and a would-be lover in a matter of minutes, without actually saying goodbye.  Not to mention vampire thing that was her brother, long thought to be dead.  As a properly helpless woman of her time and upbringing, to have lost two protectors is a devastating blow.  Them's the breaks in the Victorian apocalypse, of course.  Though her heart is thrice broken, I'm very pleased at the new level of characterisation that this will allow me to bring to the table.  I thrive on this sort of method acting crap.

And I'm a little glad that our illustrious GM has pretty much exhausted any remaining family dear Ruby could have had left.  Of course, if we're headed where I think we are next, she's about to confront her estranged philandering husband.

Oh, won't that be a laugh?