Quick Question

Would you rather see bushy-haired Callie, or prettied-up Callie?

Completely superficial question, but I'm having trouble deciding. It makes sense for her to be more prettied-up in the context of the novel, but she's always had crazy bushy hair, and looked like a bit of a dork. Especially those pictures where here eyes are so completely huge they actually look like they're going to bug out of her face!

*Huggles Callie affectionately*

The fact that she may now have to be pretty and well-presented, and no longer a complete weirdo deeply saddens me.

*Sob*

So now we have...

*Dramatic drumroll*

PHOTO COMPARISON TIME YAYS.

Image 1 - Dorky!Bushy-haired Original Version Callie

Image 2 - Revamped Perdy Version Callie Trying To Hide Blantent!Sexual!Tension! With Eds

Image 3 - Modern! Callie Looking Slightly Awkward

Yes, I sim my characters. Some people find this weird but... well, it probably is XD. But now I've simmed them so often that I actually find it difficult to un-sim them, ehehe.

Sorry that Cals is pulling such weird faces in all of them. It's not like I'm trying to publicly humiliate her by posting some of her strangest faces ever. Of course not!

*Whistles innocently*

So yes - do I go for the strange glitchy bushy hair that's been a Callie staple since Day 1 (you should see the one where it kind of explodes due to a coding fault. 'Tis awesome), or do a prettify her up as per Ariadian royalty?

Decisions, decisions.

And to somewhat alleviate the heavy subject matter of this post, have a picture of Eddy dancing AUTONOMOUSLY. As in, with sims setting on "Free Will". As in, I did not force him to do this.

I don't think I ever laughed so hard at my sims game since Callie accidentally impaled Loki with her wand during the kissing scene in Torn.

Story Post

I know most of you have already seen this one, but the opening has been redrafted slightly. And I want criticism! XD

Enjoy!

(Hopefully :P)
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Aoife crossed the Sanctum quickly, darting through darkening corridors, taking care that she did not stray too far from the shadows. She had entered through the scullery and slipped through to the main halls, avoiding the hawk-eyed watchmen that towered above a horde of cast-iron doors. So far, fortune had smiled on her, but fate was a tricky mistress, and one that could not be tamed. She kissed her knife for luck and muttered a quick prayer for safety. The hardest part was yet to come.
Her hand slipped down to the pouch at her waist, and, almost unconsciously, tightened around the shape of the map. She had already committed the contents to memory, but viewing a scribbled impression of a place was quite another thing from being inside. She had thought herself ready – the months of preparation unnecessarily arduous, when she had examined the plan for every possible complication and failing – but nothing in the world could have prepared her for the shock of seeing, with her own eyes, the triumphant majesty of the Inner Heart. A few scrawled notes served as no warning for the sense of utter insignificance she had felt as she pushed open the iron-wrought gates. For a moment, she had stopped still, as the power of the place coursed through her, and she had felt vulnerable, even with her knife by her side and blood on her hands. There was something about the place - more than the bookshelves from end to end, and tables traversing the length of the Hall, stacked high with paper and ink and strange silver devices; more even than the carvings etched into every inch of the room: the faces of gods and angels, divine and deadly in their wooden prisons; more even than the impossible number of corridors that stretched from the Heart like spider legs. It was all of this combined and more, encompassing the strange aura that enveloped those that walked here, reducing them to nothing against the terrible grandiosity of the Heart. The stern faces of saints gazed disapprovingly from stained glass windows.
She did not know how long she had spent simply staring, but by the time she had pulled herself from her paralytic stupor, there were voices rising in the corridors. Terrified – not only from the fear of capture, but by her own, momentary failure – she had rushed onwards, up thee flights of stairs, and never stopping, not until she had reached the Children’s Quarters, and the Guard.
Now hugging the wall, Aoife made a quick check for company. Her informant had seemed confident that the Halls would be emptied but people were untrustworthy, and information by no means reliable. The voices she had heard earlier were a bad sign.
Still, it was the watchmen, who were always present, that presented the biggest threat. She could hear them ahead. The metallic churn of limbs grinding against each other, and the soft hiss of steam told her they were within a couple of meters. Instantly, she felt nauseous. There was not a man or woman alive who did not fear the Guard.
Walking metal shells, they were infused with the sorcery of witches, and were stronger, quicker, and more agile than any mortal adversary. Their only weakness was their obedience - they operated by pattern and routine, and were incapable of independent thought. But the witches were smarter than any mortal, and their instruction covered almost every imaginable defence.
There were only a few facts that remained constant. Memorised by rote, Aoife knew that they operated in packs – two Searchers, to locate the target, and a Poly, to dispose of it. They changed twice on the hour, always clock-wise, always circular, for some fault in their mechanism made them unable to traverse straight lines. Unlike human guards, they did not sleep. The red lights fixed high in their tinny metal skulls never closed, and the ugly slit that divided the lower portion of the neck did not move, as if to speak. They moved faster than they eye could see, like the shadows of the shadow. In every way, they surpassed their human counterparts.
Aoife could see their chill metal jaws glistening in the faint half-light streaming from the windows, and for a half-second, thought of turning back. The money was good, but the risk was high, and the target had already proved a matter of complication for her. But even as the temptation crossed her mind, she knew it was too late – it was better to die at the hand of the Guard than turn back and face the scorn of her associates, and the shame that would accompany her failure.
Unlike many of her fellows – predominantly male and trained warriors of the Strand since childhood – she did not rush into a situation without thorough consideration of the risks, and it was this mantra that had seen her elevated through the ranks of the Organisation in the time it had taken her partners to secure their position as the menial task-drivers of a higher power. And still they mocked her, seeing her precision and fastidious nature only as the weaknesses of a woman. She watched them, looking at her body and whispering of the Admiral’s liking for a pretty face. Returning without success would undermine all she had worked to achieve. And when she had enough power to control them, they would suffer all the more for it.
She strode further up the corridor until she came to a crossroads. The noises of the metallic beasts clearly echoed from the third path along, but she had no desire to chance an encounter with the Guard unless absolutely necessary. She whipped the map from her pocket and awkwardly unfolded it until it lay flat out against the wall. Inwardly she berated herself for doing so - distraction was blindness, by the time you looked up, there’d be a knife in your back and a hand at your throat. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Captured alive and they’d see you scratch your own eyes out for reprieve. But rather that than dead from walking down the wrong corridor.
Again, her hand fell to her belt, this time resting lightly on her dagger hilt. Cautiously, she examined the map. Instantly she realised the reason for her confusion – the number of corridors up ahead fell down by one. Seven spider legs instead of eight. Tucking the paper into her belt pouch, she strode onwards with renewed confidence, slinking through a low archway and up the flight of stairs. One hundred and seventy eight steps, if the author was still to be trusted. She could only hope that the Sanctum’s inhabitants were keen to discuss the deterioration of relationships with neighbouring Aran. She could not afford further mistakes.
Up and up the stairs she went, quick and sly, never straying too long in the light. It was safer here amongst the Children’s quarters, for there were few intruders that had business with the young, and even less so with the Ihs. Tainted children; polluted and corrupted – there were few that even cared enough to concern themselves with their existence. A few years on and they would be dead regardless.
Aoife pushed onwards. The vague outline of the Guard became more defined with every step. When she had ascertained she stood as close as possible without attracting their notice, she pulled the knife from its hilt, and with her other hand pulled out her pocket watch. As the hands stretched towards the twelve, the Guard stepped from the metal gates. Given their bulk – twice the size of a grown man, and stronger than any mortal warrior – Aoife had expected them to be cumbersome. Yet they slid as gracefully over stone as if they walked on air. She didn’t even have speed on her side.
Pressing her body flat against the wall, stifling a gasp at the chill of the brick through her clothing, Aoife tried to work out a plan. The Guard were known to be blind at the change – it was this that had enabled her to get so far. But here, there were three, more than she had anticipated. And at the rate they moved, she could not make it to the door on the other side of the hall without alerting the Guard to her presence. Running into their midst would be suicide. Yet staying any longer would only delay the inevitable. Once locked in place, it would be a matter of seconds – minutes if she was particularly fortunate – before the sightless eyes turned on her. She clutched her useless dagger more tightly.

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However, because you all suck at giving me con-crit (as much as I love you for the lovely, lovely praise you give me), I've made a list of questions! Look at it being all pretty and snazzy! Witness the wowness of it! And then answer! The sparkly listehfication of it COMPELLS YOU.

1. What is your opinion of Aoife based on this? What kind of person do you think she is? Is she likeable? Sympathetic?
2. If you didn't already know, would you have figured out Aoife's occupation? If you don't know, what do you think it is?
3. What kind of place do you think the Sanctum is? What do you think it does? What kind of feel does it give off from the description.
4. I overdescribe quite a lot. I know you won't admit this, because you are all too lovely and awesome, but which parts do you think would benefit from being cut/edited?
5. Is the narrative clear? Could you follow what was going on at all times? If not, which bits were you all WTF at?
6. This is a totally random question, but how does Aoife look in your head?
7. Do you think there's anything else I could do to it to make it better?

And thus ends my first official post on Blogger!

*Beam*

Here is a picture of Loki to celebrate.

It's just not the abode of the Trickster God, without the Trickster God himself. And he is ever so peeerdddyy!

Although this picture is waaaay too old. You can tell from the super-crappy photo-editing I thought made me a proffesional photo-manipulator-extrodinaire, and the fact that his hair is much nicer now. Soon I shall have shiny new perdy Loki pictures, but not quite yet. Unfortunately, homework keeps getting in the way.

*Sob*

You are all stalkers, so I'm sure you will find this soon enough, without me having to blatently advertise it to the entire world. I'm somewhere between being disturbed and proud of this fact - disturbed, because obviously, being so interested in my life is slightly creepy, and proud because you are almost equalling my own super-stalker-skillage.

Well done, my friends. Well done.

*Huggles Loki*.

*A lot*

^__^

Greetings

So.

Let's see how this works.

*Waves to all potential readers*