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I stopped writing in this because thrice-cursed spammers were taking over the comments and kinda killed my desire to give them another playground to pollute on the internet. Sarah and I have come back occasionally to clear out the comments, but by the time we’re done with last post, they’re already filling up where we started.

She’s trying to work out how to make it Members Only posting in comments. Which means you’ll have to register if you haven’t already when we get it all sorted.

The programming languages of the internet have gotten more complicated over the years that I’ve been playing on it. Frankly, now days it confuses me. Which is why I think Sarah is a gift from the Creator to me. She understands and it and wrestles it into submission for me. She’s why the board works and looks as nifty as it does, and why I hope to come back to this blog in the near future.

So, thank you, Sarah!

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Monteleone chariot

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Monteleone

The controversy

Bah.

If they are interested in anything except the imagined tourist dollars, I’ll eat my hat. They didn’t start making noises until the restoration was well under way and the Met realized exactly what it was they had and announced it. That farmer knew he had something or he wouldn’t have contacted anyone. Even dinky villages in Italy knew people were collecting old dug up things like crazy around that time. Those two cows probably meant more to the guy then cash would have. Italy’s not crawling with cows, you know.

I am usually all for the return of stolen artifacts to their home countries. Most of the Egyptain artifacts scattered across the globe were stolen, and the Egyptians have been really good about loaning out collections for the rest of the world to enjoy, so there’s no reason to not return them if they ask for them. In fact, just recently the Egyptians requested that some of their culture’s artifacts in other countries be loaned to Egypt for a temporary exhibit. I believe that the British Museum should return the Parthenon Elgin marbles yesterday, and the Greeks should thank them profusely and reimburse at least part of what the Brits put into taking care of them.

But, and this is important, the Monteleone chariot was not stolen. Sure. I’ll admit that the Frenchmen that bought it from the farmer should have paid more for it on moral grounds, because they knew more of what the find represented then the farmer. But they did pay for it. The export of the pieces was well within Italian Law at the time it occured. That a law that would have prohibited its legal export was put on the books six years later has no bearing on this case.

If these guys were clambering for it to be returned to the Florence Museum, or one of Italy’s other museums, I’d be more willing to believe they were interested in their cultural heritage. I’d be willing to feel for them if they were offering reimbursement of some kind. But they want it back in that remote medieval village that’s off the well worn tourist track where hardly anyone is going to be willing to travel for one artifact, awesome though it is. There’s likely no one nearby that can even take care of thing, and I’ll bet these people have no idea what it takes to maintain something like that chariot. You can’t just stick it in a room and go “Ta-da!”

Sure, Monteleone has a few crumbling medieval churches, one excellent Gothic door, and a small lapidary mueseum. They even have a copy of the chariot. But that doesn’t make them qualified to maintain the real one. Forget the security the thing needs to have on it.

Yes, it’s part of their cultural heritage. It’s also part of the cultural heritage of millions of people of Italian descent world-wide, and they – we – deserve to be able to access it too. Sticking it in a remote village in Umbria is the last thing that needs to happen to it.

The people of Monteleone need to get over themselves. The chariot is in the very best place it can be right where it is.

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My vampire poem reminded me of one of my favorite Moments in LARPing from back in the dark ages when I LARPed Vampire. Back before they “unionized” it and formed the national Camarilla gaming group. Ya know, back when it was still fun.

As much as I enjoyed playing the game, some of the best moments came OOC.

The bar crowds that used to hit Denny’s on Saturday nights/Sunday morn got used to large groups of oddly dressed people in their midst. But occasionally ya have to hit a 7-11 at 2am in the middle of a game where you’ve been playing a badass Brujah Sheriff, and you’re dressed in leather pants and boots with spurs, and leather bustier and cowboy hat because, hey, your sire was Wyatt Earp, and some smartass frat punk feels compelled to ask if you aren’t a little old to be dressing up like that, and well, you never really got out of character just to run in for cigs, and the guy behind the counter is used to your group, so you get right in the face of some college boy who could hurt you if he wanted to and tell him to learn some fucking manners before another of his betters comes along and does it for him, and his buddy finds it hilarious and a little hot that a short busty woman dressed like a gothic cowgirl just scared the crap out of his friend and he hits on you, so you have to sneer your very best Ventrue like sneer and tell him you don’t have time to teach him what he needs to know to ride this ride or to explain to the coroner how a person can die of embarrassment when you laugh at his small dick, then you saunter off to your car and laugh at them before driving off.

And the storyteller who watched it all from your car gives you extra XP for making him laugh.

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Left to her own devices, Thera let the tears fall. For losses too numerous to even begin counting much less to name. It made no logical sense to her that she was the only survivor of an ancient kingdom of millions. Surely others had gotten away. There were always ships out at sea, traders in other ports, and there was that festival in Persa that Lothian and … she squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t think of it now, and thinking of him right now tightened a band around her heart that caused her physical pain.

She rubbed the bruised space just below her collarbone again. The loss of the gem bothered her as much as any of the rest. Since recieving it as a baby on her Naming, it had never been off of her, and now it was just … gone.

Thera’s fingers grazed over the planes of her crystal dagger and she held it up to the light. Light that glinted over the tracery of flames along the blade that would flare to life when activated; thin lines of gold wound through the hilt and caught the eye. The naked eye couldn’t see them, but Thera knew there were ancient runes of power engraved along every one of those gold lines.

This was it; the only artifact remaining of a proud and ancient people. She wanted to stab herself through the heart with it.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt and she actually held the point to her breastbone, but a memory stayed her hand…

The Obelisk of Rememberance had been ancient when Ashram was born, he told her, and Ashram was the oldest Arch Mage in Atlantis-the oldest person in Atlantis. So old that he had stopped counting the passing of the years.

Atlantis had once been two islands; Atla and Atlantis. When the crystal technology was still new, there had been a cascade failure of the matrix of Atla. They had time to evacuate because the Crystal Mages had sacrificed themselves to stay behind and hold back the inevitable crash that had literally torn Atla apart and severely damaged Atlantis’ eastern coast when the tidal waves hit.

One of the Crystals of Power had been housed on that island, and many had feared it lost, destroyed, and concern grew for what an unbalanced Tetra would do. How could the Heart continue when part of it was missing? But then, several months later, the Crystal of Gaia had just appeared in the middle of a field near the Eastern Seaboard. The temple had been built around it when it
was discovered.

“Atlantis,” Ashram had told her in his soft voice that resonated with power. “Finds a way. Always has been, always will be. Atlantis finds a way.”

If her initial self scans were to be believed, Tetra was no longer just an imprint within her. She carried Tetra itself inside her. If he was right, if her scans were correct, then Atlantis had found a way. She was that way.

She had been accused once of arrogance. But it would have been the height of arrogance indeed to end her life in a fit of dispair if the memory of Ashram’s words were true.

She had to believe it. It was the only hope she had.

[…]

She closed her eyes and took a breath. “I am not sure what there is to say. My entire civilization is gone. A whole race of people, ended. A place so imbuded with magic you could feel it on your skin like the sun, sundered to fragments by the rending of the earth. All I have to show for it is a dagger that I only hope I can activate again one day soon, and waterlogged robes. Even my magic seems out of sorts.”

Thera gestured at the maps again. “You show me a world so unlike what I know that it cannot even be the same place. You don’t look the same, sound the same, dress in any way that is familiar. Your naming conventions are… harsh. Your accents are foreign, and I am not sure how it is we speak the same language. You even move differently. I do not need to see the outside of this vessel to know that is is unlike any I have ever sailed upon. I can tell by the structure of this room, the woods, the way it moves and creaks. My mind just will not …. wrap around this idea. Not completely. Oh, it is not the idea of other worlds; scholars have theorized on that for centuries. It….it is the being.”

“Do you understand?”

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Let me tell you a story:

When my parents learned they were going to have to grow up quick because I was on the way, there was the usual hue and cry over what to name the baby. My maternal grandparents voted for Elizabeth, as that was what Grandmother had wanted to name my mother. But she had been overruled, or overrun, by my Grandfather. My mother, bless her, is named after my Grandfather’s favorite “movie star” of the day.

Betty Boop.

My paternal grandparents had their own ideas, which, of course, had nothing in common with Mom’s or the other side of the family. But then my father stepped in and settled it by declaring he wanted to name me after a doll his mother kept on her dresser. Granted, it was a lovely doll as I remember it when I finally asked to see it. But I still wonder about my Air Force Pilot father naming me after a favorite doll.

The doll’s name was Teresa. My mom was “Eh” about it, but decided that as long as my middle name was Ann, after her best friend Betty Ann (who was also pregnant), it was doable.

Fast forward to January 1962. My Father was out of town on maneuvers. Mom was already set to go the military hospital in San Angelo, Texas. Mom, who was not quite 18 at the time, went into labor on Sunday morning of the 14th. The doctors? Did not work weekends unless it was an emergency of the life or death variety, and the OB-GYN was off on Mondays and they worked, I swear 8-6. When Mom came in, she was doped up and given something to stop labor. When the drugs wore off, they just gave her another shot. Because she was doped up, and more then a little frightened, she didn’t realize what they were doing until Monday night. When she did, she stopped telling them when the drugs wore off. According to Mom, the head nurse was not amused when she realized Mom was now about ready to pop, and she had to call in a doctor at two in the morning.

I believe Mom’s reaction was probably the only time in her life she has ever gone off on someone and called them everything applicable and a few things that weren’t. She made a Staff Sergeant blush.

I was born on the 16th, at 2:43 in the morning. Tuesday’s child is full of grace. When Mom woke up, they were asking for a name. Father was still not there and Mom didn’t know how to spell it. So she just told the nurse and hoped for the best. As we now know, that wasn’t what she got. As an aside, a few months later when her best friend Betty Ann (also named after Betty Boop)had her daughter, she named her Teresa Carolyn. Not being doped to the gills, she was able to get the spelling she wanted.

But the important thing is this:

My name is Theresa.

Theresa: Greek – One who harvests.

Please note the spelling.

My name is not: Teresa (even though that was what it was supposed to be), Terese, Teresia, Terezia, Terezija, Theresia, Therese, Teressa, Theressa, Terasa, Taresa, or any of the bizarre spellings that have come of people trying to be “creative” and “unique”over the years.

My name is certainly not: Terry, Teri, Risa, or Resa. In fact, the only acceptable variation of my name I have been able to live with over the years has been one used by my Greek friends.

Thera: Greek – Harvester. A diminutive of Theresa. Also from the Greek island of Thera.

I was told when the name refers to the island, that it means wild and untamed. Which amused me greatly as a teenager. The island is also known as Santorini, which is believed by some to be the source of the Atlantis legends. If you know me even a little, you will understand why I was delighted to learn that little piece of trivia.

My parents named me Theresa. If they had wanted me to be called Teri or Resa, they would have named me that. I like my name. Schoolmates and teachers learned that early on because I wouldn’t answer to anything else. I survived public school without a peer applied nickname, though my great-aunt, who is a bit of an odd duck herself, insists to this day on calling me Tizzy.

But somewhere along the way after I found myself in various internet communities, I seemed to have picked up the nickname of Resa. I cringe every time I read it. Because I don’t like confrontation, and I liked the person who first started it, I didn’t say anything when it started. I figured he would be the only one doing it and that I could live with Al calling me Resa. But then he called me that on a group mailing list where it was picked up by someone else. Then that person’s husband started calling me that and it spread out from there. All it took was one person to carry it from Group A to Group B, and so on. Like some insidious disease it spread through the communities I am a part of. People I don’t recall ever even interacting with before refer to me as Resa from the start.

Perhaps I’m being petty, but I find that a bit rude. Carolyn has never referred to herself as Carol to my knowledge, and I wouldn’t presume to start doing so without asking if she minded being called that. For all I know she may have a deep and utter loathing for the name Carol and would fall into a homicidal rage if anyone dared to presume.

But because I didn’t say anything back when Al first called me Resa, I am now stuck with it. For those that have never called me that; thank you and please keep it that way. My mother would appreciate it, and after two days of labor, I think she’s earned the right to insist.

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From the discussion on Shadows of Amber forum on What Kind of Amber Characters Do You Play

My characters are, with only one past exception, always on the side of Amber. They do what they think is right for Amber.

But now, I’m going to make a confession.

I used to play mostly very straightforward characters. More often then not, it was ‘what you see, is what you get’.

But I was surrounded by characters who had so many layers, and so many plots in their heads, that they were sure my character was up to something, no matter what she said or did. I was hailed as brilliant when no one was ever able to figure out what my characters were really up to by the time the game ended. As I didn’t participate heavily in the end game wrap up threads, people were still unwilling to accept that I wasn’t up to anything.

So, the next time there was an end game wrap thread after a game was killed off by the GM, and everyone was coming clean with their plots and plans and hidden stuff, I made up the biggest lie off the top of my head that was so ridiulous, so outlandish, I expected people to laugh along with me.

Only, they didn’t. The believed me and congratulated me on my cleverness once they stopped staring stupidly at their monitors and raising a hue and cry to the GM. The GM and I were both rather taken aback, as neither of us had considered trying to pull off what I was claiming. But it was a cunning idea so we agreed that if he ever ran another game, we would see what we could do with it.

Over time, enough people started accepting that my characters were all just as they appeared to be that there weren’t many characters eyeballing mine suspiciously anymore.

And then, just to see if I still remembered how to build a Ventrue or a Silver Fang, I built an Amber character that even I thought was brilliant in her complexity. No one suspected a thing. “Oh, that’s Theresa. If she says Tempest is straightforward and likes everyone, then she is.”

And, lo, Tempest had people telling her everything, and coming to her for help when the fires of suspicion crept too close. I cackled insanely and Tempest told them everything would be alright. She went behind their backs and got them free from the current suspicion while moving attention to someone Tempest felt needed to be taken down a notch. When Tempest was left standing with the victors among the ruins, people wrote it off as her just being a blameless, paragon of virtue.

The GM and I laughed so hard, and neither of us ever admitted to the cast that Tempest was a devoted follower of a certain long dead Italian, and truely hated every single one of her cousins.

I still, ocassionally build the straightforward, shoot from the hip character that is no more then what she claims to be. They’re easy to play and there’s less to remember to play them. Every once in awhile, I will dust off Portia and bring her back into the active character realms, and that seems to reassure people. “If Portia is still her favorite character, then we can be sure of her other characters”.

On the other hand, I have dusted off Aura more then once and while she has been left alone on the surface, she is not always what she seems. The sweet, fun loving hedonist could never have pulled off the planning of the mass bug out from Amber that she is responsible for in Exodus.

I have rediscovered my inner Silver Fang, my closet Ventrue, and I find I have missed them.

Having a few open book characters in play elsewhere allows me to devote the time and mind power needed to pull off a many layered character. One with nine dozen irons in the fire, who has told so many different stories, whose public persona is crafted with so many layers of lies and half truths, that she sometimes can’t remember what the truth is either.

Granted, sometimes I find them a challange to play. I find myself anxious for The Reveal. Sometimes I have given too much away too early to too many. It’s a behaviour that’s a hold over from my LARPing days, when my circle of friends and in game allies would get together at my house and we would reveal all and bounce ideas off each other over pizza and margaritas in order to better situate ourselves in the world of the game.

So, you can never be too sure anymore. Portia is pretty much what she has always been. Her honesty has always been one of the things that made her so fun to play. But can you be as sure about dear, beautiful Daphne? For the blunt and neutral Petra? For the flightly actress that is Rochelle? What about Circe? Morrigan in her original form? For Cara, singer on the run? Or even Layla?

No, I am glad to say you no longer can be as sure with the same degree of certainty you once could.

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Her fingers wound through the dark, damp hair that framed his face. Her eyes drank in the sight of him and the naked desire and emotion on his face, in his eyes. She engraved them in her memory, these moments, to sustain her when they couldn’t be together.

“We only truly live when together,” Petra whispered.