Reputation, Writing and babbling

Creative writing has always been a hobby of mine. Even before I was filling marble copybooks with horrible self-insert stories in middle school, I was writing about knights and chivalry and goodness in grade school and continued to draw and write shitty stick figure comics well into high school. Telling stories has always been fun for me. It's self-serving, ultimately, as all creative arts are I think - Being able to spellbind people with words, make them feel, make them think? It's the best magic trick in the world. Sometimes it's a trick that gets everyone, though, magician included. Everything I wrote back then was shit.

That's the problem. I had an audience - in elementary school, it was teachers who told me I did well. In middle school, it was myself and my best friend at the time. In high school, those beat up copybooks got passed around and others helped contribute. It was all shit, but at the time everyone involved seemed to think it was good. I bought the hype. Looking back on it, I think I know better, but that leads to the current dilemma and/or thinking point.

I still write. I'm a part of a forum with a healthy amount of users. It's a roleplaying community, and we all write and share and talk. It's a roleplaying community, which means I instinctively hate 95% of the people there. It's cyclical with me - if I despise something, if I feel it shouldn't be at an intrinsic level, I inevitable get drawn into it. I run an in-game event that, when first introduced, I thought was completely retarded. I'm a pillar of a community that, when I first discovered it, I wrote off as a cliquish hugbox. I wasn't entirely wrong about that second point (maybe the first one, too). The difference now is that I'm inside of it.

It started simply because I heard people I didn't like talk about it. I checked it out, and saw that 1) they had a reputation system similar to reddit upvotes and 2) the people I didn't like were considered well-liked. At a glance, I judged the entire community. Sure enough, though, I'd be dragged onto it in time when people I did like mentioned it. So I started posting in my downtime - writing, specifically, a long and tedious section of hard character progression. The thread was almost completely a solo affair, the only other user who contributed a little bit also a new person. But it got views, and my time on the internet as a self-repulsed writer has taught me that views are a dangerous thing.

I've got the inclination to hate everything I write. I remember liking what I did in elementary school, in middle school, in high school. In my free time. I remember thinking "YES! This is amazing!" and then feeling like an idiot years later. Now, I'm a little more direct. People liked what I wrote then. People like what I write now. What I wrote then was shit. Ergo, what I write now is also shit. Part of me knows that's bullshit, but that's all also self-serving.

There are people who have given me good feedback, and I trust that they mean what they say. I also can't help but wonder... Are they buying the hype? Over the past year I've risen to being the most e-peen circlejerked member on the website. I have a reputation there, one of being a straight-shooting elitist dick, but I often say what others won't. People won't agree with me in public, but they do click that little +1 button. Leave a note saying "Thanks for stepping up." By opposing the circlejerk, I have become the circlejerk. Weird.

But I write, and I hate it, and people tell me I did a good job anyway. And part of me thinks they're wrong, even if I want them to be right. It's an ego thing. I think I've got them under the spell, even when it's been proven I don't. The concept of e-fame has come up a bit, too, but I don't want to touch that right now. Too much to think about.

I've forgotten my point. Shit.

Summon

His senses slip back in as they do every morning, one at a time. He can still taste her for a moment before the waking world removes the sensation, though the air carries traces of her as he feels the soft cloth between careful fingers. He rubs his thumb over the pattern, memory revealing to him the stitching in the shape of a heart. Lopsided and misshapen, but perfect. He sighs longingly before his eyes slide open, the sound of birds chirping unheard in his ears.


When he finally showed up in the Quicksand, Momodi was there to hand him a sealed envelope. He took it wordlessly before sitting before her in his casual clothing. She didn't say anything to him, turning to keep herself busy. He frowned, wiping his still-sleep-weary face and opened the document. It was marked with an Ul'dahn seal.

"Free Paladin Castille,

Your services are requested in a small matter. Camp Black Brush is in need of supplies on hand in Ul'dah and a caravan transporting them is in need of your protection. You will be compensated for your time. Contact vendor Nanabe in the Markets for details at your soonest availability."

 Warren sighed.

Burst

His sense return all at once, sneaking back in once the bubble of unconsciousness passes. Warm sunlight on his face, the sound of birds chirping outside in the daylight reaching his ears, her scent lingering from a place she hasn't occupied in recent memory. His thoughts return, the horrible realization souring the sweetness of it and shattering his misconception, dragging him screaming back into reality.

Across the room from him, propped up on display, is the uniform. No time for sentimentality, no time for romance or feeling sorry. Duty calls.

_

He came to with a jolt. He wasn't sure when he nodded off but his back hurt from being braced against the door and for a sweet, blissful moment he'd forgotten the dull tones through the floor that caused his eyes to stain his face and his dreams to be the same as they were to begin with. Gone were the voices and the fire that burned in them and his footfalls were quiet against the ground, carrying him down towards the room he'd left them. For an intolerable long moment he was afraid of what he might find there, the haunting vision of thrown covers and tangled limbs and

There was nothing. Empty beds, made and orderly. A pitcher of water where he left it, empty glass before it. Alone and by himself. He reasoned they must have channeled aether to get out, since he'd been posted by the door with his sword at his side. He took one more look around before climbing the stairs back to the top and took a heavy seat at the table.

The space had cost him nearly everything he'd earned in his entire existence. All of the stained money from the Bloodsands, all of his salary as a Sultansworn. He nearly couldn't cover the cost, and had to give up his private room at the Quicksand to allow it. Momodi looked at him with sad eyes, even after he assured her that he wasn't quitting on her, just needing a place to get away to. She didn't press the issue that he kept the first one and sent him packing with good tidings.

Dark skies were looming. It was with them in mind he had named the building Duskbreak; His sun had set and night was coming fast. There would be need for safety, to hide away from prying eyes and convalesce and he was in a unique position to provide it. He'd hoped his lack of affiliation and association with the Company would keep him out of the view of those with ill-intentions, but he figured he'd blown that chance the night prior, literally.

He put the thoughts out of his mind for the time being. Too much to process there, too much on his mind to weigh accurately. He focused on being the wall, the shield, the rock. He couldn't trust anyone else to be.

No.

You're reliable, which makes you unremarkable, and unimportant. Deal with it.

Prattling on

"I'm sorry she never showed up, Warren." There was a sad expression on the diminutive lalafell before him, standing behind the bar as the man slid onto a stool in front of her.

"You, uh, notice that huh?" He looked a bit embarrassed, gesturing to a bottle behind the shelf.

"Of course I did. It's my place to notice these things!" She smiled, speaking matter-of-factly and beaming with pride. " 'Sides, it's dead in here these hours and you're not exactly easy to miss. Even if you are dressed like a proper gentleman for once and not a gleaming ivory tower helping support my pillars. Easy on the eyes regardless, but a girl can't complain." A grin followed.

"Please, Momodi, I'm not sure if I have it in me to rebuke someone on that again-"

"How many's it been?" She cut him off, picking up the bottle he gestured to and raising it, withholding the pour until he spills first.

"How many what?" He set his head in his hands wearily, looking at his empty glass.

"I've got eyes, you know. Ears, too. There was the chocobo girl, there's that flower-seller, I'm not sure if you saw the miqo'te with the handlebars and the book, but that's not what she was reading. You wouldn't believe the rumors you've got going around about you."

"There's rumors now?" The words dragged out of him incredulously. "I never even said anything to anyone! I deny everyone anything."

"Oh, honey, you don't know how it works, do you?" She looked at him with a pitying expression, dark brown liquid sloshing into the glass in front of him. "We women have a sense about these things. You never said anything about what happened with you and the missus but... You've got a way about you, Warren. And these women who've been looking after you, well, they're all adventurers. Got that second sense you all seem to possess. You didn't say anything, no, but it was written plainly across your face."

"So that means that they just throw themselves at me?" He picked up the glass, still voicing in disbelief before taking a generous drink.

"You go easy now. And it didn't start that way. I don't know how things went with that girl with the accent but she seemed nice enough, for sure. Haven't seen her around much, though. And the flower girl? She's a healer, Warren. And you've got a bad case of something broken, so she's going to try and fix that. Of course, you won't let anyone, so I guess Menphina's just sending heavier hammers."

"Well that's not going to work. Would you believe the other night I had a duskwight just baldly offer herself to me? Without so much as a name or a hello? Just a 'You're big, let's spend time together.'" He shakes his head, looking at his gracious hostess. She just grinned up at him salaciously.

"You ARE big, Warren. Big and stoic and noble. You tell anyone who listens that you're out to protect The People, whatever that means. Now I'm not making fun, but you talk in grand terms about these things. It's just so damn... Romantic! You can see that, right? You're just a big, lovable sad Warren who wants to protect. You're sending out all kinds of signals whether you know it or not. You're catnip. A fixer-upper with great returns. Not to mention incredibly wealthy."

"I'm not incredibly wealthy, Momodi, you know that."

"And those other things...?" She smirks at him wisely. His eyes meet hers and he gawks for a moment before averting his gaze back to his drink, then nursing it.

"I don't want that kind of attention. I'll try to be more mindful about how I present-"

"No, see, there you go again! You're doing it right now and don't even realize it. You stuff yourself down into your armor even when you're not wearing it, you know that? You hide behind that shield and we can tell! The harder you push back, the heavier that hammer's gonna be."

"...I'll endure it. I know what I want. I'm not going to be broken."

Momodi looks on him, setting her mouth and nodding. "Alright. If you ever want to talk, Warren, I'm always here. Just don't go breaking yourself now, you hear me?"

He nodded but was already gone in his mind. There was a sun high overhead, a pang of hunger deep inside of him and lots of street left to run.

On

You've done enough.