Nocturnalux wrote:

"Nocturnalux" is shoddy Latin for "Light of the night" or just "Nocturnal light".

Sodomu no yami
Hikari no yami
Kanata no yami
Hatenaki yami.

I would totally listen to a band called Jillion Inch Nails.

Lightice wrote:

Depends whether you're talking about the book or movie. In movie it was Theoden, in book Wormtongue. And in book Theoden wasn't under any literal spell, just a lot of lies and possibly some tricky poisons adminstered by ol' Grima.

True, true.. I was referring to the book.. And true again, Grima just filled his ears with rubbish for years.. But yet again, Grima was indeed Saruman's spy, so if he was poisoning Theoden, he must've done so on Saruman's orders.

Must read the books again.. They are better than the movie.

Tenshi wrote:

But yet again, Grima was indeed Saruman's spy, so if he was poisoning Theoden, he must've done so on Saruman's orders.

Well, that's pretty obvious. My point was that Theoden wasn't magically aged and frail, like in the movie, just led to believe himself older and frailer than he actually was. That's something that happens in real world, as well - put a perfectly healthy and quick-witted elderly person to a nursery home for a few months and soon they'll be lying in the bed all day, shitting their pants.

It's my name..
I want to represent myself..

Lex...I just like this name. It's the name of the main character in Gloom Cookie and it was also the name of my created character in Soul Calibur III.

The boring and unoriginal origin of Vesus:

Well, Vesus is the name of my invention during a session of rpg's, while I needed a how to call a group of lizards slow, lazy, that breathed fire like salamanders(myth ones) that lived in the inner core of the Vesuvius Mount. Then it happened a lot of jokes and Vesus or VesusTUKP have been my names of choice to many many forums, rpg's games, online games and the like, nothing too original, but not many places have that nick and is almost sure that Vesus is me. If you see Vesus in another place, leave me a note and I will surely respond

Ashnod has been my net handle for sometime. Originally, the name comes from a character in the novel THE BROTHERS' WAR, which is based on the Antiquities expansion of Magic: the Gathering. She was the "apprentice" of Mishra, and the only one of the four prominent artificers of the era that understood the concept of mana and that magic was more versatile than artifice alone. As an artificer, she was the original thinker of the group - her devices either affected or augmented muscle and nerve as opposed to being complex machines.  She was also a bit sadistic, and was known as Ashnod the Uncaring amongst both ally and foe.

An original character of mine took the name of Ashnod after reading the book. That Ashnod is a nova, part of the movement called The Teragen in the RPG setting of ABERRANT. It's really hard to give a complete description of who that Ashnod is without understanding the setting. You can read a portion of what the setting is like by going here and clicking on the black text box to read some of my work in the setting.

But as a teaser, here's an excerpt from something else she was involved in:

Her lips slowly curl into a very amused smirk. It couldn't be called a smile, no, some might have said it was far too arrogant, or even knowing, to be given that particular label.

"Confirm the conspiracy within Utopia for us?" she speaks aloud, her tone even and light. "My dear Ms. McLachlan, we know about the conspiracy. Far more about it than you, I'd suspect. Do you know how many members of the Teragen are former employees of Project Utopia? How many employees of Project Utopia are covertly members of our movement, and I'm not referring in the manner of Charr's comment to you on the forums. Do not misunderstand me; if you have hard data you wish to share with us, we will certainly not refuse it. But for those of us in this room, it isn't a matter of suspecting something is amiss, it's knowing irrevocably that the conspiracy exists and simply looking to fill in the gaps of what we do not already know."

She finishes her wine and sets the empty glass behind her chair.

**However, that is a matter to be discussed later. I thank you, Ms. McLachlan, V, for your word. (warmth, extension of trust) Now please, empty your thoughts for a moment and merely observe...**

(The sense of quantum being focused within her ripples through the link. It carries with it the sense of an athlete warming up before a contest, a dancer stretching before a performance. It is not a heavy exertion, in fact, barely an exertion at all.)

Her anima, the crimson waves of light, begin surrounding her. Pounding against one another like liquid, a torrential storm perhaps, they expand outward further and further. The room takes on the aura of the light, as does the flesh of those present, becoming more and more crimson in appearance. Finally, the waves reach out and encompass everyone almost instantaneously, until all five seated Novas are within their circumference. Nothing is felt as the light passes over the flesh, no sense of danger or harm from their motion. The most heightened of senses, or those attuned to the feel such things, might suddenly tingle with a thus yet unnamed sensation, something akin to pleasure but also akin to-

And then...

The radio's clock is telling you that it is 2:43 am. The disc jockey, who has just told you that the past song "Joey" is from Concrete Blonde's latest release Bloodletting, has also told you it's "quarter to three. That went out to Jared who's working the late shift at UPS. Glad that you're listening to us. Before that, we heard "Epic" by Faith No More, "Unbelievable" by EMF, and "Onion Skin" by Boom Crash Opera. We will have more requested music in a moment. But first, I have to hit the can and that means you have to listen to our sponsors."

The rain is hitting the windshield of your Plymouth Miser relentlessly. Not a downpour, but it's a steady drizzle. You've already turned off the headlights and left the hazards running, but otherwise it's pitch black outside. The dashboard lights are still on, and you're contemplating if turning them off would conserve the battery. You can't though, since they are currently the only light source you have and it makes you feel so much better just to have them on.

The Miser will not move. You don't know why; you've never been good with cars and the bastard thing passed inspection last month. The people at Midas didn't say anything was wrong with it and you trusted them. You've got power to the battery, and when you try turning the key the Miser wants to start. You can hear the engine grinding away but it simply will not catch and keep running. Which would have been fine if it done this in your driveway and not twenty-two miles away from there on I-435. You think it's probably something to do with the fuel, then, since it died while you were driving. Maybe a pump went out. But in all truth, you've no clue at all.

You're trying very, very hard to stay calm. Against all your instincts, you're not crying yet. It's several miles to the nearest exit by foot in either direction. Not too much, but enough that you're not certain you want to do it in the rain. You remember that October, poor, poor, October, had a car phone in her K-car. Her parents had paid the bill on it, and you were always a little envious of it. You didn't think you could afford one, but now you're mad as hell at yourself for not thinking that something like this might happen and then you'd need one. After you get the Miser fixed, you vow, it's getting a phone. As it stands, you're probably going to miss Biology at 7:00 am.

You're bored of that station, so you hit the seek button and it comes the dance music channel. The songs go by one by one. "Love Shack" by the B-52's (you so don't want to hear that one again), "Groove is in the Heart" by Deee-Lite (same thing), and Paula Abdul's "Cold Hearted" remix from that Shut Up and Dance album that you liked but since you're a dancer that always kind of made sense. Well, not exactly, but since you liked Paula Abdul's stuff you felt a little obligated to support her and bought it anyway.

After that, you decide you can't wait anymore. The clock says 3:17 and nobody has stopped when they passed your Miser on the side of the road. The rain has let up a little bit, so you're gonna risk walking and hopefully find a 24 hour convenience store with a phone off the next exit. You open the door, making certain to grab your purse and your keys before you locked the Miser up tight. It's a terrible night to be wearing heels but hey, you had no way of knowing this would happen. Walking barefoot in the dark here would be stupid, so it's just a matter of being careful. The smell of rain, you love it, there's nothing else like it, but right now you wish it wasn't there.

You only get a few yards before a vehicle passes by you. You don't get a good look at it, but it's definitely a car. It stops a good bit in front of you and starts moving in reverse. Your adrenaline begins kicking in. Maybe they want to help, maybe they don't. You can't be sure. You obviously can't outrun them at the moment in either event. It's a pretty steep hill to both sides of the highway for at least another twenty yards you'd guess, and certain to be slick as snot with all the rain. It's either wait here for them to get to you or go back to your car and hope it will give you some degree of protection.

As the license plate gets closer into view, you decide to commit it to memory just in case something bad happens. JHR-312. Missouri plates, expires December of 90. Two months from now. You begin repeating that over and over. JHR-312. Missouri plates, expires December of 90. Two months from now. JHR-312. Missouri plates, expires December of 90. Two months from now. JHR-312. Missouri plates, expires December of 90. Two months from now.

The car stops. It's a Pinto. Christ, a Pinto! Nobody drives those things anymore! Kick on the back bumper and they explode. They did an entire scene in that stupid movie Top Secret about it. That was Val Kilmer's first movie. JHR-312. Missouri plates, expires December of 90. Two months from now. Amazing what he went on to do.

Okay, door's opening now. No, two doors are opening. And Jesus fucking Christ, they're moving quickly toward you. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Turn and get back to your car! Go! Run! Run! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

You could never run in heels. Even as a dancer and a gymnast, running in them was something you never mastered. The heel catches some uneven portion of the ground and snags. The ground rushes up before you can even bring your hands up to break the fall. At the very last second you manage to turn your head and then SMACK!

Everything goes blurry. The left side of your face hurts but you've got no clue at all what's injured. There are voices behind you that you can't make out. Closer now. You try pulling yourself up to your elbows and manage to do it. All of you is wet now. Gravel and sand and dust and little tiny fragments of glass stick to your face and forearms and hands.

Strong, terrible hands suddenly grab your at your shoulders and feet. You kick reflexively and for that fleeting, shining moment you think it's possible to get away. The hands release you and you start crawling for your life. Your forearms get scraped and cut and bloody as you pull yourself along the ground, unable to actually get up. Your breathing is heavy and your lungs feel hot but a tremendous stomp upon your back crushes you back to the ground. All the air is pushed out of you and you start gasping for the precious oxygen to refill them.

Meanwhile, the hands are back on you. You can make out the words, "Shut up! Shut her up!" but nothing more. Your blouse is torn off. Those calloused hands are touching your shoulders, your back, ripping off your bra. Calloused hands, touching you, your cold, rain-soaked upper-body.

You've got air again. With that air you start screaming and struggling, but you're simply not strong enough to overpower them. You know what's coming. You know what they're going to do to you. You'll be lucky if there's enough of you left for your family to identify when this is all over. You want to be anywhere but here. You want it to be anytime but now.

That's when everything suddenly goes into slow motion. Literally into slow motion, not the kind of slow motion that happens upon reflection but actual, undeniable slow motion. The light of the approaching vehicle on the other side of the interstate is almost like a sunrise. The movements of one of your attackers as he nears you with a tire-iron seem so molasses-like, but yet, you don't seem to moving like them. You snap your neck to the side, seeing the oncoming truck suddenly pull a complete 180 degree turn. Its headlights flood the area like a lazy cloud overhead casting a shadow. At that degree of speed, not the speed light should travel at. You snap your head back to tire-iron man, and you watch, awestruck, as you count seconds, yes, seconds, from the time that arm is brought overhead to the time it starts descending, and yes, even more seconds from the time the descent begins until the time that iron fills your field of vision and knocks you senseless.

The real world momentarily returns, like the moments when waking from a dream only to fall back asleep immediately thereafter. Her anima continues to crash its waves of light and shadow soundlessly about the room. Ashnod looks at her four companions, nods, and then...

The calendar behind the bar says November 11th, 1990, thirty-two days since that night. That night you try very hard not to think about. To be specific, thirty two days, eighteen hours, twelve minutes, and thirteen seconds from the moment you were knocked out by that tire iron. Fourteen seconds now. Fifteen seconds now.

You try squelching your awareness of time away. Focus on work. You can't. It's exactly four minutes and twenty-six seconds until the chicken fingers the man at the far booth ordered are ready. Stop it! Stop thinking about it!

You take deep breaths, several of them. Close your eyes and then open them. The mirror doesn't lie. You're absolutely gorgeous. It's not possible, but there it is. Perfect in every way you can imagine, every way you had desired to be. Your red hair is a crown of fire, almost luminescent. Your green eyes are emeralds that almost sparkle. No eyes actually sparkle, but your customers tell you that yours do. And those curves...those curves.

You don't have one damn scar on your body. Not from where you fell, not from where you were cut, not from where you were hit. Even all those childhood scraps and slices have vanished. Your muscle tone is impeccable. Not even when you were at the height of your conditioning, right before the '88 Olympics, were you this strong or this flexible.

The Spur, Larkspur's little tavern, hired you on the spot when you asked for a job. You get tips you wouldn't believe. People come in every night just to see you. Men ask you if you've been in movies, and you tell them no. Men ask if you if you'd be interested in doing a film? No. Modeling? No. Advertisements? No. No. No. No. No. You need time, is all. Time to figure out what the hell has happened to you. And fuck if someone isn't playing "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" one more damn on the jukebox.

You grab your tray and take a Bud to the man at table four. Four minutes and one second now until those chicken fingers are up. SHIT! Stop thinking that way!

There's a woman who's been eyeing you the whole time you've been here tonight. She was here when you came in. Hasn't asked for anything except club soda, but ordered a Caesar salad one hour, eight minutes, and fifty-two seconds ago, finished eating it forty minutes, forty-two seconds ago. No biggie, women look at you all the time now. You're used to it.

As you walk by her, picking up her empty glass, she grips your elbow with her fingers.

"Please," she says, "I absolutely must have a word with you. Just five minutes, please."

Nothing new. People want to chat with you all the time, now.

"You've got three minutes, fifty seconds," you say without realizing how exact you were with how much time you have until you have to be back in the kitchen. She looks at you, a bit startled.

"I...I see. Listen, can you please sit?" Almost begging. You sit.

"You see," she stammers, "I...I know who you are. What happened a month ago."

You start, getting ready to get up and leave. You knew it was only a matter of time, ha-ha, until someone located you, but you were hoping it would be longer than this. Every now and then, a glass falls off your tray and you're always quick enough to catch it. More to the point, you can slow its fall enough to get your hand underneath it. You've never seen it from an observer's point of view, but you're certain it's something to see. Someone here probably saw you doing that, and told someone, who told someone, and so on.

"Please!" she says as you begin moving, louder than you'd have liked. "Listen, please, you're not alone!"

Alone. You hate that word. You picked up and left everything. A degree unfinished, friendships hanging, after that night absolutely terrifying night in the hospital when you had absolutely no control over time and everything kept decaying and rusting and then getting all shiny again. But its true, you are alone. You hate this bar. You hate this fake name you're using. Jessica Stapleton. Stupid name. Good thing you get paid under the table. You sit back down.

The woman across from you with the brown hair and glasses and cute nose settles down. She's dying her hair to keep it that shade of brown, you realize. It's greying and she's covering it up. You've become exceedingly good at guessing people's ages. You've made more than a fair shar on bets that way with intoxicated patrons.

"I'm Sabine Llano. Dr. Napolitano, he tried talking to you while you were at St. Luke's in Kansas City? He told me what happened. I'm a parapsychologist, you see, and you're not the first person with extrasensory abilities I've met before."

You don't really like doctors. You're a freak of nature and you know it and nobody is going to experiment on you. Still...

"Go on," you say after exactly three seconds. Two minutes, thirty-nine seconds until the chicken fingers are ready.

"I represent an organization called the Aeon Society. Perhaps you've heard of us? No? We do a lot of charity work, many scholarships are funded by us. We've been studying the paranormal for years. We'd like to help you, if you'd let us."

"Help me?" you answer.

"Yes," she nods. "Oh yes, I so much would love the opportunity to help you understand what's happened. What's happening!" She's almost ecstatic. Almost like she's touching the divine somehow. You suppose you're the holy grail of metaphysics or something. Which, you reason, isn't far from the truth.

"Please," she begs, "you've absolutely no idea of the doors that have suddenly been opened to you."

And just like before, like waking, the real world returns. Her anima retreats back, not fully within her, just hanging at the periphery.

A long time ago I wanted a username that sounded like a regular (but hopefully unusual) girl's name. I thought sharnii sounded warm and casual (whether or not it does), and that's the net perception I wanted to give. I stole it from a fashion label my Mum was thinking of making.

These days I just use this same username across multi-fandoms so as to try and drag net-friends into all new fandoms. Plus it's easier creating fanfic/vids/whatever all under one username. sharnii has pretty much turned into another name for me, and has become as much "me" as my rl name (unlike previous usernames). And it's used about as much as my rl name to refer to me too.

My one regret is I love the creativity of making usernames that specifically reflect a fandom. So I really enjoy any usernames here that are specifically SKU. But it's a sacrifice I'm making at the moment to achieve my other aims.

If I was going to rename myself a SKU username I would pick something like: SlapMe_im_Anthy or SwordsGirl or Skudiction, none of which achieve any of my aims.

Years ago, I described Jerry Cornelius to someone as a "discursive decrescent daytripper" and they responded "like you, but not" or something in that vein.  Then, I went through a period where I was actively trying to fuck over future biographers and ruin my potentially-good name by having friends post under my real name and various aliases, across the net, including the DD monicker (not my brightest move ever, I must admit).  I only use it here now, and variations on Barbelith which change every month or two (I think I'm currently, Deculture Decedent there at the moment).

I pretend like it's a secret identity I'm maintaining, but the sheer obviousness of me being me, means many people I know IRL and professionally have sussed me out.  I need to reboot my continuity to the days when nobody knew who I was the minute I put on glasses, combed my hair, and followed cute Pulitzer-winning journalists around.

I'd assume you're a reanimator?
And yeeeah. I SO read those fics years ago. Oh my.
XD


I'm allegoriest because mazoboom was already taken.



What? I registered before Mazoboom? Oh.

Hrm.


I'm allegoriest because its an AWESOME name. Seriously. (I'm going to assume everyone knows where this name came from.)

But really, it took me FOREVER to come up with this name. I wanted something Seazer-y though. (I actually fell in love the first time I heard him when I was little, before like... Nanami age and stuff.)  I made a whole list and narrowed it down. I remember I almost chose Kushpadmee or Jenla. I had others too, but they were too long for aim. ;__; But I had a huge list of potential names.


Unfortunately, I don't like the song that much, but seeing as my screenname is allegoriest, I make my stuff, like my main LJ, based off that song. Which is a pain in the ass. (all my others have word themes too for their song, yes.)

(On a random note, I have a set of plushies that are Rabelais, Swift and De Sade (Red Angel has my Dante, I took Virgil from her). How sad. My lovely allegorical children. Among other Seazerly named plushies...)

Actually, I NEVER associated my name with Touga until someone else did, and I was like, "What the hell are you talking about, I don't have a Touga related name."

Well, I remember you mentioning Pokemon ones I believe, and I haven't named my Pokemon ones. Sudowoodo is a good enough name for Sudowoodo I think.

My other plushies all certainly have names though.

Onlyinthislight is my user name for pretty much everything, and I originally decided on it because I wanted a user name that was both easy to pronounce and devoid of numbers.   As as far as meaning goes there isn't much, I mostly just found the name attractive in that cheesy pop-poetry kind of way.  I think I thought it up as a reference to my complete lack of photogenic features, or something insecure like that.  Nowadays I find it to be a little immature-sounding for a user name, but I like that it starts with an "O" and has a good amount of nicknames that can be fashioned from it.


Real life friends do, on occasion, refer to me as Oytle, which I adore.