Picture yourself....now twist it around a bit

[Drake]

Alright, so discussion of a particular section of my post with Nichatus earlier led to another topic: What would your character's "mental core" look like? I was asked *coughcommandedcough* to turn this discussion into a thread for all to join in on. Now, I know this will be harder to do for some characters than others, but it's a fun little piece of character exploration, so give it a try.

I'll start off with one of my boys, Angren.

Angren himself in the mental core would probably look much like himself, but his form would probably be made of some durable yet malleable metal. This would symbolize that he is firm in his beliefs, but it is not impossible to bend him into a different way of seeing things. He would also be stripped bare for the most part because he is a very honest and open person, but far too modest to go letting his junk swing about even in a mental projection of himself.

The surroundings would probably be a scene of some beautiful place on one side and his home on the other with a line of darkness separating the two to represent the vast differences of the two. Angren would stand on the black line, enclosed in a cage with gaps in it's bars just small enough that he could almost fit through, to represent how he feels cut off from both places because of who and what he is.

The air would be filled with the echoes of laughter and music, and be filled with pleasant smells like fresh flowers and baking bread. To elaborate on Angren's felling cut off, when anyone stepped close enough to his cage the surroundings would become blurred and colorless, the smells would change to that of rotting things, and the sounds would change to screams of death and anger. This alteration also shows how Angren feels the outside world views him, as filth incapable of anything but war and fighting.

The barbarian would probably speak a combination of his native tongue and gibberish. More symbolism for his feeling misunderstood by the people around him. There would, however, be a rope above the top of the cage, just out of his reach, as foreshadowing that he may not always be cut off if he can just seize the opportunities for friendship and such that are dangled before him.

[Jenica Sabiny]

Jen's is pretty spot-on in Drakey's post: a 6 year old Jenica, naked and alone, with blood running down her thighs. The only thing I'd add is covering the floor she's lying/walking on with broken glass or sharp gravel. Sidenote: she is not menstruating, as someone thought

Lanya's inner core would be a quaint little cottage surrounded by farmland. She would look like herself, but be pregnant, and offer hospitality to any visitors who happened by. The entire scene would be warm, cozy, and natural, and anyone would be welcome.

Gelden's inner core would be a field full of wildflowers that could talk, sing, and sway.

Anga's inner core is vast, and the only time I've talked about it I depicted the person visiting as standing outside a hurricane of memories and emotions. So hers would be a hurricane, for better or worse - something which could easily sweep the observer into the spiral of overwhelming time forever.

[Lylessa Uluki]

Uluki would be made of hardened clay, broken into pieces and visibly joined back together. She has no open cracks, but she can't be undamaged and whole and smooth again; she'll always be glued. In her hands she clutches the drawing Dash made of their family.

She would smile at anyone who came to see her, and offer to help them or heal them.

If asked about the clay, she would say it was mud-- that she was dirty, made of filth. If asked about the cracks, she would call them punishment for an evil nature.

If asked about her family, she would smile radiantly and explain they were the glue holding her together.

[Frug]

Chrishton's mind is like a small beautiful cottage in the middle of some quaint, quiet woods which are in turn surrounded by a roaring forest fire. He sits in a chair out front, looking just as he does in real life - unshaven with long hair and a bit of a gut - drinking ale out of a mug and smiling into the pleasant breeze, blissfully ignoring the fire that surrounds it all.

If you joined him he'd invite you to have a seat and tell you not to worry. Just don't wander too far past the tree line and don't leave your food unattended lest it be stolen by the foxes.

The cottage would be full of his old memories, perhaps even his dead wife and his lost son, though he'd never go inside and would not appreciate you messing about in there.

[Drake]

Well, with an abundance of time on my hands thanks to waking up early I thought I'd have a quick go at the next easiest of my three, Nichatus.

Nic would probably show up as his childhood self, with bruises peeking from under the edges of his sleeves and such. That was a pretty integral part of him becoming what he is now, so it would manifest in his mental core in some way, and that is the most likely way in my mind.

He would probably ignore anyone who happened upon him or tell them to go away with really foul language. He doesn't want company, because he has the whole "I don't need anyone" attitude. The cussing because he would never do it in actual speech despite the urge to. It's kind of a subconscious effort to rise above the status he was born with and seem more civil than his roots.

The little Nic would probably be wandering the streets of Marn, as he views it as his real home. The scenery would probably be smeared, however, as if it were an oil painting, because Nichatus pays very little attention to the details of structures that serve no purpose to him. And yes, eventually this will be manifest in IC posts somehow.

The streets of the city would also be filled with little wind-up toys like mice and those cymbal clanging monkeys. The citizenry are just toys for him and the judges to play with as they please.

In Nic's eyes this whole scene would probably be seen as just something odd, but anyone else viewing it would probably see it like some derranged nightmare.

[Daq Bekkar]

Hmm... I've been thinking of how to answer this without giving too much away.

Daq's inner core would be a grimy wooden table in the middle of blackness. A strong light illuminates it from above. He sits at the head of the table, goggles lowered, bent over a corpse. Upon further inspection, one might realize that the corpse bears a striking, if not perfect resemblance, to the man working on it. Its chest has been opened with a Y-shaped incision. The edges of the cuts are quite precise. The tissue under the skin is dotted with black, which seems to be centered near its heart. A few excisions have clearly been made, but, overall, little more seems to have been done in this area than a superficial examination.
Daq is more engaged by the head, which he has split open less cleanly. He digs around in the brain, cutting out piece after piece of it. The tissue is collected on a metal tray next to him. It looks healthy.
On his left shoulder rests a hand, beautiful but for its long, thick nails. Its knuckles are white from the exertion of its grip. One can make out the shape of an elegant sleeve of an outmoded style, but nothing more can be seen, on account of the darkness.
Daq sits quietly and will not respond to any questions.
Any attempt on an observer's part to leave the circle of light will be met with a painful flood of cacophonous voices.

[Blood Ravenous]

I think for Ryxa, it would be pitch black, an empty space, save for her--standing on nothing. She would be burning alive, but through the flames you would see she is staring, watching you or whatever presence has entered her mind. She would also be naked except for shackles around her wrists which are chained to the ground by her feet. That represents her "enslavement" to being a battlemage, the shackles representing her red gloves. The other representations are fairly obvious.

If you walked away far enough you'd come upon a scene in the darkness of a burnt down house. I'd imagine it would be like a painting with an abrupt ending in darkness... like the sky and grass fades off into black. This would be where the child Ryxa resides, sitting in the ruins and playing with matches. She'd ignore a presence unless it was pestering her, and then she'd yell at it.

There would probably be other scenes, but I won't go into them right now.

Raishel would be completely unreadable, since everything would be random and confusing. There would be no trace of her childhood in her mind.

Asiona would be sitting on a bench in a park in her best Sunday dress, sometimes getting up and pacing. Lateus would be sitting beside her or waiting for her there when she paces. They would talk with each other, but ignore anyone else. There would be a huge tree shading them, but in the view of the park bench ahead would only be a plain of dry grass that would end up as a desert the further you went. A ring of twisted metal and puddles of wax would be lost in the desert. Since Asiona has a simple mind (not stupid, just clear and without guile) that would be it for her.

Coinneach... his mind would be a giant lake with no surface, and dead bodies would be floating everywhere. When a presence got close, these bodies would probably swipe at it, but other than that they would lay still. Coinneach would be swimming around, visiting all the bodies. If he noticed a presence, he would attack it.

[Mercedes D'Amour]

Let’s see... Merc’s inner core...

It is dark there, down among the grime and the blood and the muck. The buildings stretch up into the sky, blotting out the sun for the most part, cold and damp to the touch. She is naked but for the rough, grey woollen blanket she pulls around herself,
vainly trying to keep out the cold and prying eyes. Her feet are dirty from walking the road since the day she was born and her hands are dirty from reaching out to those self-same people who gave her the scars on her face. These people line the streets – she knows them all as they all have a place in her life history. Some reach for her, others ignore her completely. She reaches out her hand to most of them, but few make it to their feet. The ones that do get up, turn and enter one of the wooden doors strewn along the paths she walks – the rest remain. She will see them again and again, until they are barely recognizable underneath the layers of dirt and old blood. There are a few faces that look out of the windows of the buildings above. They smile and wave to her and she waves back, genuinely happy for them in their warm, safe dwellings. As for her, she knows she will never leave the cold grit of the street no matter how many invite her in.

The dirt and the cold don’t discourage her. The blood and the scars don’t scare her.

She loves it all – she is comfortable in the extreme discomfort of her surroundings. It is all she’s ever known, but for the odd refreshing gust of wind that comes unexpectedly barrelling down the hollow alleys. The warm breeze was welcomed - it blew away the garbage and it smelled like something completely foreign, but nice. She knew it wouldn’t stay and also that she’d never get to that place where it originated.

And yet she walks on. To stop would be to wallow. To quit would be to become those that were strewn along the wayside like so much trash and excrement. She holds her head up high and walks with calm assurance.

She doesn’t belong here even though this was where she was made.

Visitors would be treated with the same distant look with which she regards all who do not share a part of her history. The more memories associated with the person, the more likely they are to get a response – but she will never stop walking. It is generally considered a very good idea to keep up as the further one strays from Mercedes, the more the darkness seems to move by itself and the more the cold seeps from the stone into the trespasser. No one will open their door to a stranger. Didn’t their mothers warn them about that?


Aimee’s core is perhaps more unsettling than Merc’s for a completely different reason.

All is light and air. There is no ground upon which to stand. Aimee floats effortlessly in the centre of it all – the chaos is order to her. She looks quite a bit like her twin sister, as one would imagine, but here she is all in grey-tones except for her pitch-black hair which undulates like an ocean of molasses around her. Naked, vulnerable, she has no intention of hiding who and what she is. Where the light touches her, colours flare on her skin for the briefest of moments before the light is absorbed into her. A closer analysis would find that the light actually streams from her pores as well – the lights mingle and dance like aurora borealis, whirling about without end.

Upon entry, the visitor would find themselves transposed into particles and waves of light and/or the absence of. There are never any other human forms in Aimee’s core other than Aimee. She regards the new source with kindness and curiosity and will offer her own light to them. They are free to join in the song and dance, but she knows all too well that it is unlikely that they will want to share themselves with her so freely – perhaps that is why she looks so sad.