So, like, I have three new followers or so from the past few days and I just wanna remind people that I actually never update this blog and everything I ever post is either to antique-symbolism or aquestionofcharacter.
I think it’s cool that people want to follow me, but you’ll never see anything here!
I honestly don’t see myself ever really updating this blog again. If you would like to follow my adventures on another front, I run two blogs that update regularly: antique-symbolism (my personal blog) and aquestionofcharacter (a character development/writing help blog).
Ghost in the Costume was kind of a fun thing to do, but I ended up making this the type of blog where I only post in-character. And I don’t cosplay that much anymore, and writing for other people’s characters is something I’ve never been much good at anyway.
So… Thank you people for following me and continuing to follow me after like… months and months of me never posting anything.
I wish Tumblr let you change your main blog. I hate that when people want to follow me back they end up following this dead blog. =P
Ash and dust settle together on the ground in a fine layer, coating the hardwood floors. The fireplace sits, abandoned and grey with no caretaker. There is scarcely a sound to speak of throughout the old, haunting house. There has been little activity, no life, no words exchanged save the whispers that the winds pass back and forth throughout the night.
But there are those who still await the return of the house’s spirit and soul.
A flare sparks, igniting the old, dusty wood stacked inside, and with little ceremony, a roaring blaze begins. Slowly, a faded figure, like that of an age-old photograph, becomes clear to the naked eye.
She smiles. The Ghost is back. “Hello,” she greets. “I apologize for being away so long.” She is pleased to see that her audience has not abandoned her, even in the depths of her disappearance. She offers no explanation, simply an invitation. “Please, have a seat. The next story is about to take life.”
She pulls a mask from the wall - a pristine piece of metal cast in white, her visage now transformed into a faceless, robotic countenance behind the shield. Her last words before her expression disappears entirely are, “But don’t worry. The last story isn’t over yet, either. The story is never truly over.” With that, she pulls the mask over her mouth, and The Ghost as she was is gone.
In this world, there are many stories, and there are many storytellers. The Ghost asks her audience to support the other stories of the world, and she will therefore present to you two links.
http://trainermilkman.tumblr.com/ - The humourous account of one trainer in the Unova region as he battles hipsters and comes up with ridiculous names for his companions. [NSFW. Strong language and such.]
http://doomedproduction.tumblr.com/ - The production blog of Doomed! - quite possibly the best webcomic that does not yet exist.
As she finishes writing the addresses in ash, The Ghost nods one final time with a small smile. ‘No matter how many years you have in this world,’ she thinks, ‘one will never have enough time to experience every story. But we can always do our best to seek as many as possible.’
July 25th, 2277
Well, I made it there safely.
“Safely” being a purely relative term. I got attacked by another band of Raiders on the way, and upon arriving at the door of the Mojave Wanderer I was greeted with a wary look and a hand upon the trigger of a rifle; a stare and a weapon that could surely intimidate one like me with no more than a bloodied baseball bat. But eventually we
gained each others’ trust … came to a mutual understanding …decided not to kill each other. The shattered Pip-Boy kind of helped prove the validity of my case.
And hey, you’ll never guess what - she has a Pip-Boy, too! It looks like it’s been through a small nuclear war of its own, but maybe it means she can help to fix mine after all. You know, after she stops rolling her eyes and muttering about my irresponsibility and lack of repair experience.
Get this. She also carries a load of dynamite wherever she goes. I believe Herbert “Daring” Dashwood really summed up my thoughts most accurately concerning this woman and her choice of warfare. “That’s what this Wasteland needs! More women with spunk and explosives!” Of course, the woman whom he was talking about did turn out to be the leader of the biggest slave trade operation known to the DC Wasteland, but hey, I’ll raise my Nuka-Cola bottle and say, “here’s to hoping the Mojave Wanderer doesn’t kill me in my sleep!”
There has been no trace of the Lone Wanderer in days, but if you were to open her journal, you may find where she went…
June 22nd, 2277
GOD DAMN SUPER MUTANTS.
Let me just repeat that so we’re all clear.
God up in Heaven: Please damn. All Super Mutants.
Long story short - got in a fight with one, ran out of ammo, had to bash his head in with a baseball bat, and before his tiny brain collapsed in on itself from the impact, he managed to swing his club directly onto my arm. This not only broke a few bones that I had to pay Doc Church (who continues to insist that I should be taking care of my own problems “unless it’s cancer”) to fix, but shattering the screen and effectively ruining my Pip-Boy 3000. Yeah, the one I’ve had since I was ten years old. The one I rely on to keep me sane via radio while strolling the Wasteland. The one that keeps track of my limb condition.
Needless to say I’m bitter. Is it showing through my writing?
Moira couldn’t fix it. Walter couldn’t fix it. And God knows I can’t fix it. So what to do?
I’ve been asking around and it turns out that there’s a woman who’s come all the way from the Mojave staying over in some small town barely anyone’s ever heard of. I’m not looking forward to the walk, but I’ve heard she’s quite good at fixing things - guns, robots, pre-war tech, and hopefully Pip-Boys. If she’s even ever seen one.
I thought about leaving a “Back in 5 (days)” note on my door, but I’m sincerely doubting that anyone will care enough to read it. I’ll be back eventually if something else doesn’t try to kill me on the way back.
Anonymous said: The Ghost forgot to mention that the muggle mother cut out the HP. Good times, good times.
As the Ghost slowly lowers her most recent mask, she nods subtly to the mother who goes without her credit and whispers a sincere apology. “But,” she adds, “Never forget that these are the stories of characters, not of people.”
'Is there really a difference?' she wonders silently as she turns to face the ancient fireplace.
Heed the Ghost’s warning…there are spoilers ahead.
In the quiet solitude of the dining room at the Doddridge house lays an intricately carved stone basin. A shimmering liquid like melted silver swirls around the bowl, making shapes, inviting you to scrutinize them, to analyze their message. It draws you in and before you realise what you’re doing, your head plunges forward, and with a bit of a cold shock, you are watching the family’s memories…
“You’re not serious, are you?” Juliana takes a hold of the black, fuzzy bathrobe that her brother Derek handed her moments ago and laughs.
“No, look. I just want you to emblazon the letters “HP” right here.” Derek motions to the side of his robe, pointing to the left side of his chest. “And I’ll get some glasses, draw a scar, wear some lounge pants…what do you think?”
Juliana shakes her head, burying her face in her palm. “The Muggles get official permission to make a movie about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived,” she started in disbelief, “And you want to go to the premiere dressed as…?” she trails off, not even sure what to call his plan.
“Harry Pimpin’,” Derek fills in for her with a bit of a cocky smile.
“Harry Pimpin’ Potter,” Juliana repeats flatly, staring at the bathrobe.
“No,” he corrects. “Just Harry Pimpin’. H. P.”
She groans and looks from the bathrobe to the old sewing machine she doesn’t plan to use, and then back to Derek. “Can’t you just get a house elf to sew it for you or something? Or better yet, just wear your old Hogwarts uniform. That’s what I’m doing.” She motions over to the chair by the window, sunlight streaming in on her Ravenclaw tie and grey sweater, covered slightly by the robe that hangs off the side.
“Look, I don’t know any house elves,” he dismisses her suggestion with a wave of his hand. He didn’t acknowledge her second remark. “Can you just do this for me, sis?”
After a moment’s consideration, she snorts a little in laughter again and grabs the bathrobe just as he takes hold of it, ready to pull it back should she refuse. “Go cut out the letters.”
The smoke in the Pensieve swirls, and the image of a wand tracing over a sheet of red fabric appears, severing the threads in the shape of two large sized letters - an H and a P. Juliana places them on top of the bathrobe, and, thanking the stars that she’s seventeen and legal to use magic outside of Hogwarts, she traces the letters once again in the same manner, and the thread winds itself in and out of the soft fabric.
The smoke swirls again, and Juliana and Derek have parted. Juliana stands in line at the theatre. “No, no, no, Dumbledore is dead,” Juliana explains hurriedly to her slightly clueless Muggle mother, catching her up on years of Wizarding history in the hopes that she’ll understand the latest visual installment. “Snape killed him.”
Her mother gasps. “Snape?! I always knew he was evil.” She nodded in her theory’s confirmation. Juliana keeps the rest of the story to herself, knowing that if she says another word, she’ll accidentally spoil the end of the story. So instead she just says, “You really should have read the books, Mom.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “J.K. Rowling is the only one who really knows the whole story. She had historical consultants at the Ministry help her out and everything. The movies leave out so much.” Juliana takes a quick look around the line to see if anyone heard. Only wizards and witches could know the truth behind the story of Harry Potter. That was the whole point, the Ministry had decided. If anyone ever tried to expose the Wizarding world for what it was, a simple point to the “fictional” universe would work as the ultimate form of plausible deniability.
But since nobody seems to take notice, Juliana goes on to explain the concept of Horcruxes.
One last scene flashes before your eyes as you feel the memories coming to an end… A mock wizards’ duel at the front of the theatre… “Stupify!” Juliana yells as she knows she could win for real if only she could use real magic.The contestant on the other side of the room stumbles backwards as if he has been dazed, and she can’t help but think that if this were a real duel, the whole act would have been a great deal more convincing, especially with all the multi-coloured flashes of magical energy that would light up the theatre. Still, she smiles and shouts out, “Petrificus Totalus!”
With one last plume of smoke welling up at the corners of your eyes, you see the theatre lights dim and the movie begin…
…But everyone already knows that story.
A raggedy journal lies on the desk of the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101. You open it to the most recent page…
July 13th, 2277, 2:14 AM
“In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking, but now God knows… Anything goes!”
Anything goes, indeed. It seems to be an eat-or-be-eaten (sometimes literally) and kill-or-be-killed (nearly always literally) world out there today. So what new form of survival brings me to documentation on this withered and dirty page of my journal? Counterfeiting.
Anyone who’s been living in the Capital Wasteland for more than three weeks (which, incidentally, is exactly the amount of time I’ve been here), is aware that any self-respecting trader who has an ounce of a brain more intelligent than a Brahmin knows that the only cap worth taking and paying with is one from a Nuka-Cola bottle. But more and more frequently, I’ve been finding other sorts of caps - pre-war sodas and beers and the like, and I thought…well, why not turn them into something useful? So with a little bit of hundred-year-old paint I found at Springfield Elementary after chasing out the Raiders, I got to work.
As far as the morality of this profession, I’ve seen better, and I’ve seen worse of this Wasteland in my very limited experience. There are people out there that would berate me for an idea like this, but you have to admit, at least I’m not sneaking into tiny backwater towns (I mean, more backwater than most places out here) by night, killing, raping, and stealing. That’s a Raider’s job, and I’m still pretty far from that, thank you very much.
Then, there are others who would just tell me it’s as stupid as taking on a Deathclaw with a switchblade. If I ever told anyone about this cap-counterfeiting, I’m sure their first thought would be, “How long does it take you per cap? Somewhere around an hour? Wouldn’t you make more taking up an honest job like scavenging abandoned factories or taking up murder for hire?” Well, to be honest, yes. But if I had wanted to make quick and easy money, I would have taken up Mr. Burke’s offer to blow Megaton sky-high. Think of this as more of an experiment… I’ve caught word of a certain type of cap that people will practically kill for. Unfortunately, it’s across the country in the Mojave-oriented section of nowhere, but I figure if I left the Vault, I could leave here too, if I wanted. Just…not without my Dad.
But that’s an entry for another day, right?
So far I’ve made only a bit of progress - ten caps for an exact count. But if you want my completely unbiased and un-self-absorbed opinion, they look even more convincingthan the real deal. (Can I get some points for my use of sarcasm here?)
I’ll try ‘em out tonight at the Brass Lantern to see if Jenny can tell the difference. Let’s just hope that if I ever become some grand counterfeiting criminal, GNR doesn’t decide to take up the report. Or worse, if the Enclave caught word and was somehow made to care, adding it into Eden’s blaring propaganda report about the ‘misfits and ruffians’ of the wastes. The Enclave is crazy, but man do I want to steer clear of that kind of threat. I’ll stick to taking on Mirelurks and the occasional Talon Company Merc, thanks. John Henry Eden can “run” his “country” in peace. And I think the Enclave is a little too busy calling for genocide on the Ghouls for being ‘inferior,’ yeah?