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Post: 55711021_1 created on Sat, 31 Oct 2009 10:30:20 +0000
Posted: Sat, 31 Oct 2009 10:30:20 +0000

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Welcome to the Fa'e Diary of Sigeric
Like all diaries, this diary is meant to be private. This means you need to ask the permission of Raife before you post in here. Please do not ask to buy this Fa'e child, they are NOT FOR SALE. What are the FA'E, anyway? To find out more about them, please visit the FA'E HQ. There are always lots of people there, and our HQ Sheriffs will gladly help you out if you have questions. So please, do not post here and ruin an exciting story, ok? Now, read away and enjoy the little and big adventures of Sigeric.

Random Facts About Sigeric
Reborn: Unknown - Lost Child of Fa'e / Rediscovered 10/07/2010
Gender: Male
Guardian: Raife
Favorite Colors:
Favorite Things:
Personality:
Powers:
Partial to:

Raife

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Post: 55711021_2 created on Sat, 09 Oct 2010 00:00:48 +0000
Posted: Sat, 09 Oct 2010 00:00:48 +0000

{ t a b l e o f c o n t e n t s }

[ one ] cert post
[ two ] table of contents
[ three ] updates
[ four ] sigeric
[ five ] kafka
[ six ] past life
[ seven ] acquaintances
[ eight ] residence
[ nine ] gallery
[ ten ] rules
[ eleven ] etc.

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Post: 55711021_3 created on Sat, 09 Oct 2010 02:53:47 +0000
Posted: Sat, 09 Oct 2010 02:53:47 +0000

{ u p d a t e s }

[ 10.08.10 ] Finally fixing up the journal, finally have the kid...for good or for ill.

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Post: 55711021_4 created on Sat, 09 Oct 2010 02:57:42 +0000
Posted: Sat, 09 Oct 2010 02:57:42 +0000

{ s i g e r i c }

[ name ] Sigeric Sige in old english means victory. Ric means power.

[ gender ] Male

[ age ] Approximately 8-10

[ appearance ] Ric's hair and skin are an almost totally consistant muddy brown. It could have been actual mud once, with the way he keeps himself, it's hard to tell. But it's seeped into him somehow and become part of him. He's very tall for his age and built for speed and power - a warrior born.

Everything about him is filthy. He smells like dirt, mud, grime and anything else absolutely filthy. The first word that comes to mind when near him is dank. Kind of a wet asphalt smell.

His nails on both his hands and feet are clawed and sharpened to points. He never wears shoes, or, really anything that obscures his body parts, except...maybe underwear on a good day. Well, except his hair, which covers about 2/3rds of his face at any given moment. It's ragged, as he seems to prefer cutting tearing it with his claws when it gets in the way.

His skin is rough. As it functions as a primary layer of armor, it doesn't have the smoothness or give of normal skin, rather, imagine leather.

[ personality ] Relentlessly aggressive, mean. A lot stupid. He'd sooner punch you in the face than say hello, and have absolutely no reason for it. He acts younger than his age and does not respond to reason. You might as well argue with a rock for all that's up in his head. Never gives up when he has his mind on something or is in a fight.

He has no indoor voice/moderation/respect for eardrums and tends towards a lot of yelling, overly demonstrating his emotions. It doesn't help that rage or synonyms thereof comprise about 80% of his emotional range. Never. EVER. Thinks before he opens his mouth. Sometimes strings of jibberish might just come out.

He could give two shits about society's conventions, and is likely to pee on a house plant if given the chance and a full bladder. He's had very little exposure to any sort of social setting, and is given to sulking if he doesn't get his way. Well, that is, until something else comes his way that he wants. He also thinks he likes being alone unless someone can prove useful to him in a fight and he can be around them for five minutes without attacking them first, but really, he needs someone to fight with. That doesn't mean he'll be sociable.

Sige, currently, cannot read, and his general speaking grammar is incredibly suspect.

[ likes ] Blood, meat, fighting, fighting, cool, dark places, hurting other people, watching people get hurt, fighting, battle cries, fighting games (when he can't fight for real)

[ dislikes ] Fruits and other sweet things, inanimate or otherwise. Weakness.

[ powers ] Immunity to blades - No blades can pierce his hide. It's also rather difficult with other types of weapons, but ultimately, he can be shot with a gun, etc. The original figure of Grendel shared this immunity.

Berserker Rage - An uncontrollable state in which Sige loses all reasoning in exchange for immensely increased speed and power. He cannot purposely activate this power. It happens in the heat of battle only. This state of being leaves Sige mindless for its duration, with only the singular thought to destroy whatever enemy triggered it in the first place.

Communication with Earth-Bound Demons/Monsters - Sige, child of Cain that he is, can communicate with the countless lessers that share his bloodline. Earth-bound monsters only, this does not carry over to true demons, underworld demons, etc.

Speed, Stamina and Strength - Ric has a warrior's speed and strength. That is, a measure above a normal person's. He's especially speedy and rather agile as well, only honed further by his time spent hunting forest creatures. That said, he's nowhere near invincible. The original Grendel, after all, is best known for being bested in combat.

[ weaknesses ] Light - His strength is weaker during the light of day. Extremely bright lights and sunlight make him extremely uncomfortable. He won't die under the sun's rays, but if you ever get into a battle with him, it'd be a good idea to drag it out til the sun rises. Indoor and artificial lighting schemes are less effective, but can still provide some discomfort. Shadows provide some relief, as he isn't restricted from the day entirely, just the light that comes with it. He has no direct weakness to fire -heat doesn't bother him- but the light from it will prove uncomfortable.

Strategy - He's just not a strategist by any means. Unless he's got his mind set on something, he can be easily tricked. (Does not apply during Berserker Rage).

Hygiene - He's permanently covered in mud and he never showers. Occasionally, he bathes in the river, but frogs pee in there.

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Post: 55711021_5 created on Sat, 09 Oct 2010 03:25:37 +0000
Posted: Sat, 09 Oct 2010 03:25:37 +0000

{ k a f k a }

[ name ] Kafka Larsen

[ gender ] Male

[ age ] 28

[ appearance ] Scruffy and overworked. Like Sige, he cuts his own hair, and he isn't particularly abreast of fashion. Spends a lot of time in wooded areas--usually unusually dirty. Bum-like in appearance. Wears glasses when reading or when he's been up late working or drinking. At 6'2", he's underfed and lanky. Could be considered attractive, if you like the unkempt scholar type.

[ personality ] Relaxed and easy going most of the time. He isn't particularly used to handling kids, as he's never had one of his own, nor does he have any nieces or nephews, but he has a firm hand and a lot of patience. He'd have to, to deal with Sige.

When he's writing, however, he's a little singleminded. He gets grouchy when bothered, and becomes a socially unacceptable sort of hibernating creature until the flow breaks down.

Although he deals okay with people, he's a loner by nature. He enjoys a good woman now and then, but generally keeps to himself.

[ likes ] Bratwurst, mythology, the smell of leather, woodworking, cooking, reading.

[ dislikes ] Crowds, pushy people, cigars, being rushed.

[ history ] As a child born to two free spirited Danish immigrants in London, Kafka had a relatively happy, if unusual childhood. His parents never stayed in one spot for long, moving from burrough to burrough while his parents continued to celebrate the 70's long after they were over. Although a people person, he grew up with a strong love of books, instilled in him by his very art minded parents that wanted him to have the kinds of opportunities of expression and exposure to art that they didn't have in the backwater farms of Denmark. He therefore spent equal time between reading and socializing throughout his childhood. Both traits would eventually lead to his aspiration of becoming a writer, which he developed in his early teens. He loved to watch people's behavior, analyze it, and write about it.

The older he got, the less frequent he began to see his parents. Their nature took them away from home often, and he didn't really share their wanderlust, so he stayed in an apartment they rented for him in the Camden Market area of London. Eventually, by the time he was 17, he stopped seeing them or receiving money from them all together.

Always the more stable and dependable one in the family, he didn't really understand their wanderlust, but neither did he begrudge them it.

Content to be alone after their departure, and unconsciously unwilling to create more ties that could so easily be broken, he moved to the house his father grew up in, in Denmark, to spend his time writing so he wouldn't have to worry as much about supporting himself.

Up until lately, he continued to live in Denmark. Recent events, however, have forced him to uproot...

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Post: 55711021_6 created on Sat, 09 Oct 2010 03:53:07 +0000
Posted: Sat, 09 Oct 2010 03:53:07 +0000

{ p a s t l i f e }

The following is the story of Beowulf from Grendel's point of view. If you're interested in the way the Danes say the story went down, bite me.

Once, very long ago, just outside the Danish kingdom -and occassionally, in a bath of blood and violence, inside it- all was well. The successor to a long and powerful heritage begot by his mother and once set forth by Cain, the ancestor and father-pimp to most demons, lived satisfied in a majestic and befittingly dark cavern. Grendel's infamy was self-won, both born and abandoned on the edge of a bank by his merwoman mother, a shiftless sort who only paid her motherly attention on holidays and when she needed a loan of virgin blood. That was generally fine with the young heir as he was a generally solitary sort, preferring those who lived in darkness to those who shunned it. He built his kingdom on his own strength and it stretched as far as the darkness touched unbroken by light and he was happy with it.

Until one night. That blasted night that started everything.

It started, inoccuously enough, with a bard. Goddamn blast those moody eyed poets to hell, but at least they sang one at a time with some sembance of order. Ignorable. Pests, at most. But then those knights, with their filthy, hypocritical ideals of honor and chivalry, preaching abstinence to the people while they banged scullery maids and their wives sat home waiting....those KNIGHTS. They came in, in their clanking metallic outer skins and started up a rousing round of drinking sounds. Grendel had a migraine. Each clank of metal tankard felt like a blow upon his own skull.

It wasn't like that sort of behavior was anything new really. The Danes were horrible neighbors. They stayed up partying at all hours of the night, they befouled the waters with their waste and regularly hunted in his very own forests without so much as a by-your-leave. He'd been silent thus far. But now? With each passing hour and each new verse of "Thyse Olde Wenche Doth Droppe Maye Skirt Waye Lowwe" he could feel his temper snapping.

The Danes had to go.

It was with little contemplation that Grendel decided to visit the Hall of Hrothgar, Heorot at the witching hour. If they'd seen fit to disturb him at all hours of his rest, then surely, surely nobody would begrudge him such a tiny revenge. He didn't think to knock -neighborly spirit and all- but had the forethought to creep into the hall without a sound. He had to duck a little -humans were so small. Even the grandest of their doorways seemed not imagined for him. Inconsiderate.

The hall was dead as he stepped inside. Not even a scurrying servant to greet him. He, whose kingdom spanned the entire marshland, wherever darkness touched, was greeted by a bunch of snoring Danes in various states of drunken undress. A busty woman was spread across a tabletop like she herself was a buffet, her skirt flung indecently over her midrift. In his sleep, the King, Hrothgar himself, was still humming that same incessant tune. Grendel gritted his teeth and growled under his breath, but mindful of his manners, did nothing to wake them up. He'd leave a note instead, for them to find in the morning.

He patted down his sides for a pen before remembering, that as always, he was naked as a jaybird and dammed preferred it that way. He considered taking a sword off one of the sleeping warriors and carving a message into the solid stone bricks that made up the hall, but it seemed disrespectful and downright meanspirited to do something so permanent. He almost left without a note, to go back to his cave and sleep when he had an absolute stroke of genius! He'd use the blood of the Danes to write his message! Humans bred like rabbits anyway and were always dying in wars and battles between themselves. Surely killing a few of them would be like swatting a bug against the wall. Absolutely insignificant.

He chose thirty of the juciest warriors, careful to pick those that were most full of blood. No sense wasting a few of the cretins that were scrawny and yellow-blooded. Gently removing a choice limb or two from each, he scrawled in his flowing, royal handwriting, his message onto the walls of Heorot.

Translated From Old English For Your Reading Pleasure

"To those whom it may concern (Mainly King Hrothgar, my longtime neighbor),

I have found myself increasingly bothered by your nighttime observances of celebration at your castle Heorot. If you could please keep the noise down, I would be much obliged. If you continue to persist in this raucous merry making, however, I will be forced to call the proper authorities, and also notify the Association of the horses you're keeping on your front lawn. I'm pretty sure that hitching post isn't up to code. I hope we can settle this in a peaceful and mutually satisfying manner.

Sincerely,
Grendel.

Punctuating with a flourish at the end of his name, Grendel pursed his lips, studying the message in front of him. Satisfied, he cleaned up the scattered limbs, taking them back home to his cavern for disposal. No sense leaving a mess around the hall.

---

The next morning, Grendel woke up to a deafening set of screams coming from Heorot.

Dammit. What now?

The screaming continued all day long, even into the next day. It continued when night fell, when the sun rose, when it fell again, and Grendel found himself sleepless and becoming very very cranky.

Had they read his note? Were they mocking him? Were those tiny, useless, weak bags of flesh mocking him?

And then it occurred to him.

Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? They were likely illiterate. He'd heard of the rampant illiteracy in humans. Perhaps they couldn't write or read and had thought he was mocking their stupidity? And did he even remember to write in English? Granted, he might have if he'd thought of it. Well, he'd have to go over and sort things out with them, face to face. He'd head out at nightfall again to Hrothgar's hall to clear everything up.

Satisfied that he'd solved the problem, he headed about his business until the witching hour again, at which time he headed over back to the hall.

This time, they were waiting for him.

He didn't have time to be baffled at their choice of greeting before he was assaulted with swords and spears and whatever other sort of pathetic human weaponry they'd come up with. He tried to explain himself but they'd have none of it! The screaming and the wailing, everything was deafening! He swatted a few of them aside gently -it wasn't his fault that humans were weak!- to get to the King to explain himself, but more and more of them just kept getting in his way! They seemed determined to keep him from speaking to the King.

Well, fine. Fine. If they wanted to be rude, he'd have to come back another time when they were calmer and right in their heads. He left the hall, leaving the useless, idiotic uncultured meatbags to repropagate themselves, or whatever they did in their free time and mourned that he could have ever come from their kind.

The feud between Grendel and the Danes continued for twelve years. Every couple of months, Grendel would come over and try to state his case and every year, the Danes would refuse to listen to reason, and Hrothgar would refuse to give him an audience. After addressing the proper authorities, filling in the proper paperwork, Grendel even tried to have the Danes evicted, but they wouldn't go. Even as he added the hall to his kingdom, they stayed like squatters, as annoying as roaches. Always underfoot.

But they'd been a tolerable nuisance, and they no longer celebrated at night.

Well. Until they got that attourney.

At least, when he arrived, diminuative and straight in the saddle at the court to greet Grendel, that's what he'd assumed the man was. Broad shouldered with a straight foward look to him. Grendel'd been a little late to arrive back to the hall for his monthly visit. He'd been arranging a visit to his mother and arrived a bit late. The Danes had seemed overjoyed by the arrival of this pedestrian, small man with an uncomfortably direct stare. He wasn't sure what they'd accomplish. He had papers! He belonged there in that Hall! He'd let the bastards give it a shot though.

Naturally, they didn't understand each other. First there was that tiresome business with the sword. But Grendel had taken to understanding that that seemed to be how the men said hello. He'd watched them joust and play fight even in the worst of times. So when the man had extended his arm, Grendel assumed a shake. They'd bonded, after all! He'd never had anyone bother to ask him to shake before, and was quite touched by the gesture.

Oh, and quite a firm handshake he had! The little man was stronger than he looked! Felt like he was going to pull an arm right off! Oh, well there, a little rough. Hey?! That's a little much!

Grendel tried to pull his arm away, to get away from the man, suddenly getting a quite clear message that he wasn't any kind of attourney at all. They'd hired some sort of hero. One of those brainless thugs with a sword and too little sense, all hack and slash and very little forethought. Grendel wasn't the smartest tack in the box himself, with no formal education, but he was brilliant compared to...HOLYMOTHEROF

The little beast ripped his arm off! Grendel recoiled in fear, clutching at his empty socket, now bleeding profusely all over the halls of Heorot. He swiped at the man, but he was already growing weak. Someone call a doctor! A physician! A healer! Anything....he was growing so weak! But all the useless heathens did was stand around and cheer and chant.

"Beowulf! Beowulf! Beowulf!" It was the last thing he heard as he slipped from the hall into the comforting darkness.

He lay faint across the pile of bones and furs that made up his bed, tending to his wound the best he could. Alas, with a certain lack of hygiene, he knew his fate. Blood trickled down around his feet, warm and sticky. As a dripping wet shadow fell over the front of his cave, he breathed his last, dying words.

"Ma? Ma, I'm dying. Get that sonofabitch lawyer for me, will you?"