Arcturus Benedict

Son of Thoros the Strongheart

Prince of the Benedicts

King of the Hill

Born into the nouveau riche family of a quaint pastoral region, Arcturus was blessed with both the good genetics and the wealth and titles of his father Thoros, a retired adventurer long since elevated to minor nobility for his deeds.  Both are giants of men in both size and stature, blond of hair and blue of eye.  However, Arcturus is easily distinguished from his parent by the distinct absence of scars across every part of his body - also, by an impish smirk which seems designed to make men want to punch him.  This course of action is, of course, ill-advised, as Arcturus has physical talents both practiced and inherent, and delights in lording them over those quick to anger.

While a clever child, Arcturus has squandered most of his expensive education, paying little heed to instructors and to the workings of inner politics that constantly plague his house.  He has acquired only enough talent at social manipulation to further avoid duties to his house, and spent as much of his free time as possible carousing, dueling, brawling, and daydreaming.   Spoiled and self-centered, Arcturus is primarily motivated by a desire to outshine his father, which led him to leave his homeland and seek his own fortune at an early age.

Arcturus has a strongly developed sense of right and wrong, but mostly cares about it in the sense of fame and infamy.  He wants one, cares little for the other, and will take any route that allows him to be seen as a glowing savior regardless of whether his actions actually help those in need.  Having never really lost a battle, he considers himself invincible and never backs down from a fight, seeing near suicidal challenges as quick paths to glory.

Arcturus is a daydreamer and a believer of fantasies.  He has virtually no attention span and constantly forgets or mispronounces names - whether as a purposeful slight or a quirk of his often distracted mind is anyone's guess.  He does feel strongly indebted to those he travels with, seeing them as his own extremely dysfunctional family.

Today I first heard

a sweet nothing

whispered in my ear -

a little maybe

gently teased

with all the promise

of a promise

and all the potential

tomorrow brings.

Yes. A dream is best shared.

Yes. A dream is best lived.

"You know what the best part about being an explorer is? You get to name the planets. Fleet decree. Of course, you have to have a little imagination to captain a ship through the dark unknown, and you have to get approval - regulations, after the whole debacle with the Sam sector, Sams I-XII, the Sam nebula. But if you're one of the 15% of us ship captains who makes it out past the boundaries of known space, the lands you see will bear words you've spoken for eternities.

"If I ever get to a planet I don't like, I'm naming it Eden - just to spite all those poncy bastards who think we're gonna find paradise out here. And if they do - the name's taken! Guess your perfect planet won't quite have that perfect ring to it, rich with religious context so you'll have someplace new to preach your religious pfaffle for another twenty-two centuries.

"...That's assuming, of course, I find a planet I don't like. And I haven't yet. They're beautiful.

"They're all too beautiful. "

What to say about this year. This year was this and this and sometimes a little of this. This year I made great friends. This year I made an effort to make my life better. This year I think I succeeded.

This year I made resolutions to ask a girl out, publish something, move to Portland. This year I fulfilled all of those resolutions and still wasn't satisfied. This year my heart soared and plummeted, this year my dreams waxed and waned, this year everything sweet came with a little bitter. This year was amazing and beautiful. This year I did things right by myself. This year was pretty amazing.

This year I did my damnedest. Next year won't be different.

I now have a little family of blogs.

The Twilight Rewrite: http://rewriting-twilight.blogspot.com/

My media blog: http://contentaggravation.blogspot.com/

“Fuck you, you mediocre bastard,” she said, and the words echoed like the aftershock of an atom bomb through his whole reality, rearranging on a molecular level what it meant to be human and alive and in love with someone who did not love him back. 40 long mediocre years she'd been his, some 14,600 utterly average kisses every morning, twice that many dull conversations about unimportant things, roughly 7,000 dissatisfying sexual encounters where he thought he had been her everything and she had tolerated – tolerated! - him inside her, while he pretended not to notice like the bastard he was, had to be.

There could be no greater insult. Each syllable cut with the keen edge of truth, maybe not the truth but a truth, one that he could not help but believe. In one great instant of personal triumph a man faded, and flickered, and was no longer a human being. And like that, it was over.

But not for everyone...