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mina_de_malfois at 12:19am on 13/06/2006 under memoirs
mina_de_malfois at 12:19am on 13/06/2006 under memoirs[The author, who is in touch with Ciyerra, thanks everyone for reading and friending, and especially for playing along. Extra special thanks to Dreamer Marie; you know, one of my betas pointed out that very same mistake, and I still forgot to fix it. She must be out there somewhere, headdesking.
Oh, and a message from behind the veil for Estrella, who was kind enough to email: yes, of course you’re right, that is one of my fandoms.]
Disclaimer: Mina de Malfois is an original fictional creation. These stories and characters are the sole property of the author, but she lends them out for fanfic and fanart. A list of Mina de Malfois/Sanguinity things by other people can be found here. This is a work of fiction. No resemblance is intended to any person or persons living, dead, or online. No BNFs were harmed in the making of this fic.
The next development, I suppose, would have been the creation of a livejournal in the name of ‘Ciyerra of Tyana.’ The thing is, though, I didn’t notice right away. That’s the problem with recording these events: I’m never sure whether to let you have developments in the order in which they occurred, or whether you’d prefer to know how they came to my attention.
My own attention, just then, was taken up with grave matters. I still didn’t have the funds to buy my Sanguinity premium account, and chapters one and two of At His Lordship’s Behest had been posted to remarkably little acclaim. PrinceC had had a similarly dismal response to his updates to Of Vice and Velvet, and we commiserated of an evening.
The relatively small volume of comments had meant, however, that I was able to pay greater attention to each one. I’d been attempting to reply to them, if only with a few brief words of thanks. The better class of BNF tries to make these little gestures, although it is a struggle sometimes to keep up with the sheer volume of feedback.
Among the reviews there’d been much positive feedback for a scene I’d written in which PrincessB, hosting a séance for her fashionable friends, inadvertently draws the attention of the undead, more specifically of Lord Henri Antoine Silvestre de Gravina. It throbbed with erotic tension, that scene, and the readers gushed praise in response. Several of the esoterically-minded fans had seized on that séance in particular, and were regaling me with tales of their own encounters, to which I politely feigned attention, partly out of good breeding but mostly out of a fear of enraging the crazy.
One of these fangirl spiritualists had puzzled me by asking if I was ‘in contact with her,’ and several had immediately chimed in to agree that my inclusion of a séance scene couldn’t be coincidence. It was proof, they said, that I had been in touch with Ciyerra of Tyana. That was the first time I’d ever seen the name, though I didn’t come right out and tell them so. Instead I thanked them for reading me, cautiously agreed that spiritualism was very interesting, indeed, and then went off to do a spot of googling.
Fangirl belief systems are a curious thing. Fans fall willing prey to obvious con artists, yet let some honest soul in genuine need of assistance speak up and they respond with scepticism and sarcasm. Nine times out of ten, they doubt real facts but rush to embrace stylized nonsense. Still, even knowing this, I boggled at their credulity now. I say this with all the respect they’re due, which in this instance was none: they were making complete arses of themselves.
Ciyerra of Tyana, when I googled her, turned out to be the username of a livejournal, entitled ‘remnant’ and subtitled ‘whispers from the grave.’ All very melancholy, and all, I saw, mirrored at the requisite deadjournal under the same name. Thus far, you’ll agree, de rigueur for your standard emo journaller, and nothing worthy of further enquiry. And I almost let it drop there, without even glancing at the contents, but for an idle curiosity as to why readers had assumed I was ‘in contact’ with this Ciyerra when she wasn’t even on my friendslist. Speaking of friendslists, she seemed to have friended all of BalletChic’s supporters. Aha, I thought smugly, this will turn out to be the ‘sister’ or ‘friend’ reinsocknation of BalletChic.
I clicked to the journal entries and was soon lost in a kind of awe at the sheer nerve of the wench, not to mention the equally sheer idiocy of her respondents. Ciyerra of Tyana didn’t claim to have known and loved the tragically pseuicidal BalletChic. Oh no: that would be too easy.
Ciyerra’s first two posts had been, except for their subject lines, wordless. The subject lines were phrases like, ‘something stirs in the shadows’ and ‘the veil is lifted, briefly, to reveal....’ The entries themselves were black and white photographs, somewhat enhanced by filters--blurred for maximum spookiness, and tinted here and there for emphasis. They had all been taken, as far as I could make out, in the same room, although in keeping with the carefully crafted atmosphere I suppose I should call it a chamber. It appeared to have stone walls, though those may have been photoshopped in. Forgive my cynicism, but someone has to keep their wits about them, and a quick read-through of the comments informed me that I would have to be that someone, as witlessness had struck her other readers full on.
Based on the photographs, online ingenuity had concluded that Ciyerra was the ghost of BalletChic. This theory of stunningness had arisen when a few bright sparks noticed that a sort of altar was foregrounded in all the photos, and that the altar was bearing, in addition to assorted candles and tat, framed copies of BalletChic’s late, lamented fanart. Since only BalletChic had been known to have copies, and since she was dead, Ciyerra must, ran the argument, be her new ‘presence.’
Well, I thought so too--that last bit, I mean, about presence. But the commenters had shouted down what few attempts had been made to introduce reasonable terms like ‘sockpuppet’ and ‘still alive then.’ No, no: instead, the grief-stricken hordes had decided that Ciyerra was an online avatar of the spiritual kind.
Each object d’artifice on the altar was being dissected as though it might contain the secrets of human existence. The presence of a set of Rosary beads was noted, and this provoked a fresh outpouring of grief from the ‘Girls’ Dormitory’ set. There was also, some sharp-eyed viewer pointed out, a small, framed photograph of PrinceC. I scowled. Corpse or no corpse, I wanted to throttle her.
Ciyerra nurtured this delusion, of course. The most recent entries contained, along with the haunting photographs, some verbal gibberish designed to underscore the point for the slower crazies. ‘Reduced to shadows and faint energies,’ she’d typed, ‘I flicker across these new Paths of the Dead. I am composed of memory and longing, and a love that will never fade.’ I wondered briefly if a warning to PrinceC might be necessary, but dash it all, how do you break it to a chap that he’s in danger of being haunted by the spirit of livejournal?
‘Your means of communication are my only existence now,’ she’d reiterated in her most recent post. ‘Shrink not from my sad ghost, my fondly remembered friends, but pity me, and remember.’ I, personally, remembered that I’d disliked her from the start, which, in retrospect, demonstrated a keenly sensitive insight verging on the psychic.
Some days, the level and amount of idiocy online make me want to leave fandom for good.
Most days, of course, I recognize that this fannish tendency to leap onto bandwagons and get carried away by enthusiasms is pretty much the basis for my own popularity. Without slightly mad fangirls, I put it to you, would there even be BNFs? It’s not talent alone that propels one to the top, after all. Still, an online haunting was taking things a bit far, in my opinion.
‘Have you noticed Ciyerra of Tyana?’ I asked PrinceC cautiously.
‘If by ‘noticed’ you mean ‘paid any attention to,’ then no, and I have no intention of doing so,’ he answered. ‘I suppose I’d be more flattered if she weren’t so obviously around the twist.’
My opinion of PrinceC rose. Really, for such a young man, he’s astoundingly sensible.
And that, let me assure you, is a rare and undervalued quality in online fandom. Fangirls were rejoicing at each sign that the sheeted dead were gibbering and squeaking in the metaphorical internet streets. Packs of eager believers had friended Ciyerra, and were breathlessly reporting on her every post. The shot glass and absinthe bottle on her regularly-photographed altar had formed a focus of worship, and fangirls far and wide were claiming that they set their alarms nightly so they could quaff a shot of absinthe each midnight in tribute to her shade. This ritual, they insisted, ‘strengthened her spirit energy.’ I didn’t believe it for a minute. If there were that much absinthe being sold to teenage girls, it would be making headlines, and concerned parents would be holding protests.
The internet economy was getting a boost from the tomb, though. Ciyerra supporters were selling one another crafts at a rate the Dow Jones people would admire. Candles ‘just like the ones on her altar’ were popular, as were black armbands embroidered with pink ballet slippers, and fanart ‘tributes’ featuring Jab or PrinceC mooning around in a graveyard. I suppose by this point all those who’d joined the Cult of Mourning were too heavily invested, in terms not just of crafts but of credibility, to simply admit they’d been had.
And some unknowable percentage probably really believed. Fans have been known to cling to some pretty non-standard beliefs. This phantom of the internet was mild stuff, really. For some reason I was feeling less rage-y about it all now that I knew PrinceC shared my cynical amusement and refusal-to-be-taken-in-ness. Not my problem, after all, if a bunch of rabid imitators set up altars in their bedrooms, or offered prayers by moonlight to energize an imaginary ghost. And if Warr1or chose to collect morbid Jab-in-mourning fanart, some of it not entirely worksafe, well, at least it kept him off the streets. I didn’t even begrudge PrinceC the cyber-roses the romantically-minded mourners insisted on buying him ‘to assuage the pain.’
But when I, obeying a passing whim, checked Penn’d Passion and found that Ciyerra of Tyana had been allowed to create an account there, I saw red. I can stand, I mean to say, so much, but not more than that.
‘Arc,’ I messaged her tersely, ‘you’ve allowed Ciyerra to register at Penn’d Passion.’
‘So I have,’ she agreed calmly.
‘But then you must have her IP number,’ I pointed out shrewdly.
‘Writer-archivist privilege,’ Arc claimed smoothly.
Hmph. ‘Surely you don’t believe in ghosts,’ I snapped, ‘so I suppose you believe in second chances.’ It irritated me, this casual undeserved forgiveness.
‘How’s chapter three coming?’ she asked, deftly changing the subject. I admitted it was done and had just been submitted.
‘Then I’ll tell you this much,’ Arc said. ‘Ciyerra has paid her dues, and in return, I okayed her account. Now, why don’t you go amuse yourself at the Sanguinity game site?’ I bridled at her tone. Dismissive, I thought, and I felt quite disgruntled, and strangely flat.
At least, until I logged on, as so wisely suggested, at the Sanguinity game site. Arc, I saw at once, hadn’t been blowing me off at all. She’d been confiding in me, though with the utmost circumspect discretion.
‘Welcome to your Premium Account!’ enthused my avatar page. ‘You have received a gift of twelve months’ premium time, paid for by Ciyerra!’
1. The first recorded instance of pseuicide I could find happened in 1941.
2. At this rate, a gamespace Malfois estate wouldn’t be much more affordable than a real one. Bloody SecondLife.
3. BalletChic’s last post, her pseuicide note, is inspired by the note Amy Player left her parents. See Jeanine Renne's book for more on that whole...thing. Truth really is stranger than fiction.
4. sold out of both ‘Final Resting Place’ and ‘Ashes of Grief.’ A BPAL deathwank reference.
5. A few of them also sent me burned copies of a Very Special Podcast dedicated to BalletChic. I recently listened to a Very Special Podcast; my immediate response to said podcast was to roll my eyes and denounce it as sheer, attention-garnering horseshit. There are a lot of real tragedies in life; there are a lot of fake tragedies online.
6. weaving bracelets out of their own hair and mailing these off to people they especially wanted to be remembered by. Not only did the Victorians make hair wreaths, but Americans, during the Apache wars, made and wore hair jewellery. No, really. An amateur historian friend of mine once creeped me out rather badly when he asked me to...no, on second thought, I’m not finishing that story.
7. a sort of Shade of Fraud. I could not resist a “schadenfreude” pun.
8. BalletChic’s recently departed plebeian soul. Arguably an Anne Rice shoutout.
9. By next morning, mourning’s minions From GM Hopkins: "I caught this morning morning's minion..."
10. I've been unable to find any internet hauntings, but I did find some weirdness involving bringing a character over from the astral plane.
11. Prince Choronzon Erik Vladimir de Gravina: Choronzon was the 'demon of chaos' Crowley claimed to have raised; Erik is of course the Phantom of the Opera; and Vladimir is a shout-out to Dracula fans (as, arguably, is Mina).
Oh, and a message from behind the veil for Estrella, who was kind enough to email: yes, of course you’re right, that is one of my fandoms.]
Disclaimer: Mina de Malfois is an original fictional creation. These stories and characters are the sole property of the author, but she lends them out for fanfic and fanart. A list of Mina de Malfois/Sanguinity things by other people can be found here. This is a work of fiction. No resemblance is intended to any person or persons living, dead, or online. No BNFs were harmed in the making of this fic.
The next development, I suppose, would have been the creation of a livejournal in the name of ‘Ciyerra of Tyana.’ The thing is, though, I didn’t notice right away. That’s the problem with recording these events: I’m never sure whether to let you have developments in the order in which they occurred, or whether you’d prefer to know how they came to my attention.
My own attention, just then, was taken up with grave matters. I still didn’t have the funds to buy my Sanguinity premium account, and chapters one and two of At His Lordship’s Behest had been posted to remarkably little acclaim. PrinceC had had a similarly dismal response to his updates to Of Vice and Velvet, and we commiserated of an evening.
The relatively small volume of comments had meant, however, that I was able to pay greater attention to each one. I’d been attempting to reply to them, if only with a few brief words of thanks. The better class of BNF tries to make these little gestures, although it is a struggle sometimes to keep up with the sheer volume of feedback.
Among the reviews there’d been much positive feedback for a scene I’d written in which PrincessB, hosting a séance for her fashionable friends, inadvertently draws the attention of the undead, more specifically of Lord Henri Antoine Silvestre de Gravina. It throbbed with erotic tension, that scene, and the readers gushed praise in response. Several of the esoterically-minded fans had seized on that séance in particular, and were regaling me with tales of their own encounters, to which I politely feigned attention, partly out of good breeding but mostly out of a fear of enraging the crazy.
One of these fangirl spiritualists had puzzled me by asking if I was ‘in contact with her,’ and several had immediately chimed in to agree that my inclusion of a séance scene couldn’t be coincidence. It was proof, they said, that I had been in touch with Ciyerra of Tyana. That was the first time I’d ever seen the name, though I didn’t come right out and tell them so. Instead I thanked them for reading me, cautiously agreed that spiritualism was very interesting, indeed, and then went off to do a spot of googling.
Fangirl belief systems are a curious thing. Fans fall willing prey to obvious con artists, yet let some honest soul in genuine need of assistance speak up and they respond with scepticism and sarcasm. Nine times out of ten, they doubt real facts but rush to embrace stylized nonsense. Still, even knowing this, I boggled at their credulity now. I say this with all the respect they’re due, which in this instance was none: they were making complete arses of themselves.
Ciyerra of Tyana, when I googled her, turned out to be the username of a livejournal, entitled ‘remnant’ and subtitled ‘whispers from the grave.’ All very melancholy, and all, I saw, mirrored at the requisite deadjournal under the same name. Thus far, you’ll agree, de rigueur for your standard emo journaller, and nothing worthy of further enquiry. And I almost let it drop there, without even glancing at the contents, but for an idle curiosity as to why readers had assumed I was ‘in contact’ with this Ciyerra when she wasn’t even on my friendslist. Speaking of friendslists, she seemed to have friended all of BalletChic’s supporters. Aha, I thought smugly, this will turn out to be the ‘sister’ or ‘friend’ reinsocknation of BalletChic.
I clicked to the journal entries and was soon lost in a kind of awe at the sheer nerve of the wench, not to mention the equally sheer idiocy of her respondents. Ciyerra of Tyana didn’t claim to have known and loved the tragically pseuicidal BalletChic. Oh no: that would be too easy.
Ciyerra’s first two posts had been, except for their subject lines, wordless. The subject lines were phrases like, ‘something stirs in the shadows’ and ‘the veil is lifted, briefly, to reveal....’ The entries themselves were black and white photographs, somewhat enhanced by filters--blurred for maximum spookiness, and tinted here and there for emphasis. They had all been taken, as far as I could make out, in the same room, although in keeping with the carefully crafted atmosphere I suppose I should call it a chamber. It appeared to have stone walls, though those may have been photoshopped in. Forgive my cynicism, but someone has to keep their wits about them, and a quick read-through of the comments informed me that I would have to be that someone, as witlessness had struck her other readers full on.
Based on the photographs, online ingenuity had concluded that Ciyerra was the ghost of BalletChic. This theory of stunningness had arisen when a few bright sparks noticed that a sort of altar was foregrounded in all the photos, and that the altar was bearing, in addition to assorted candles and tat, framed copies of BalletChic’s late, lamented fanart. Since only BalletChic had been known to have copies, and since she was dead, Ciyerra must, ran the argument, be her new ‘presence.’
Well, I thought so too--that last bit, I mean, about presence. But the commenters had shouted down what few attempts had been made to introduce reasonable terms like ‘sockpuppet’ and ‘still alive then.’ No, no: instead, the grief-stricken hordes had decided that Ciyerra was an online avatar of the spiritual kind.
Each object d’artifice on the altar was being dissected as though it might contain the secrets of human existence. The presence of a set of Rosary beads was noted, and this provoked a fresh outpouring of grief from the ‘Girls’ Dormitory’ set. There was also, some sharp-eyed viewer pointed out, a small, framed photograph of PrinceC. I scowled. Corpse or no corpse, I wanted to throttle her.
Ciyerra nurtured this delusion, of course. The most recent entries contained, along with the haunting photographs, some verbal gibberish designed to underscore the point for the slower crazies. ‘Reduced to shadows and faint energies,’ she’d typed, ‘I flicker across these new Paths of the Dead. I am composed of memory and longing, and a love that will never fade.’ I wondered briefly if a warning to PrinceC might be necessary, but dash it all, how do you break it to a chap that he’s in danger of being haunted by the spirit of livejournal?
‘Your means of communication are my only existence now,’ she’d reiterated in her most recent post. ‘Shrink not from my sad ghost, my fondly remembered friends, but pity me, and remember.’ I, personally, remembered that I’d disliked her from the start, which, in retrospect, demonstrated a keenly sensitive insight verging on the psychic.
Some days, the level and amount of idiocy online make me want to leave fandom for good.
Most days, of course, I recognize that this fannish tendency to leap onto bandwagons and get carried away by enthusiasms is pretty much the basis for my own popularity. Without slightly mad fangirls, I put it to you, would there even be BNFs? It’s not talent alone that propels one to the top, after all. Still, an online haunting was taking things a bit far, in my opinion.
‘Have you noticed Ciyerra of Tyana?’ I asked PrinceC cautiously.
‘If by ‘noticed’ you mean ‘paid any attention to,’ then no, and I have no intention of doing so,’ he answered. ‘I suppose I’d be more flattered if she weren’t so obviously around the twist.’
My opinion of PrinceC rose. Really, for such a young man, he’s astoundingly sensible.
And that, let me assure you, is a rare and undervalued quality in online fandom. Fangirls were rejoicing at each sign that the sheeted dead were gibbering and squeaking in the metaphorical internet streets. Packs of eager believers had friended Ciyerra, and were breathlessly reporting on her every post. The shot glass and absinthe bottle on her regularly-photographed altar had formed a focus of worship, and fangirls far and wide were claiming that they set their alarms nightly so they could quaff a shot of absinthe each midnight in tribute to her shade. This ritual, they insisted, ‘strengthened her spirit energy.’ I didn’t believe it for a minute. If there were that much absinthe being sold to teenage girls, it would be making headlines, and concerned parents would be holding protests.
The internet economy was getting a boost from the tomb, though. Ciyerra supporters were selling one another crafts at a rate the Dow Jones people would admire. Candles ‘just like the ones on her altar’ were popular, as were black armbands embroidered with pink ballet slippers, and fanart ‘tributes’ featuring Jab or PrinceC mooning around in a graveyard. I suppose by this point all those who’d joined the Cult of Mourning were too heavily invested, in terms not just of crafts but of credibility, to simply admit they’d been had.
And some unknowable percentage probably really believed. Fans have been known to cling to some pretty non-standard beliefs. This phantom of the internet was mild stuff, really. For some reason I was feeling less rage-y about it all now that I knew PrinceC shared my cynical amusement and refusal-to-be-taken-in-ness. Not my problem, after all, if a bunch of rabid imitators set up altars in their bedrooms, or offered prayers by moonlight to energize an imaginary ghost. And if Warr1or chose to collect morbid Jab-in-mourning fanart, some of it not entirely worksafe, well, at least it kept him off the streets. I didn’t even begrudge PrinceC the cyber-roses the romantically-minded mourners insisted on buying him ‘to assuage the pain.’
But when I, obeying a passing whim, checked Penn’d Passion and found that Ciyerra of Tyana had been allowed to create an account there, I saw red. I can stand, I mean to say, so much, but not more than that.
‘Arc,’ I messaged her tersely, ‘you’ve allowed Ciyerra to register at Penn’d Passion.’
‘So I have,’ she agreed calmly.
‘But then you must have her IP number,’ I pointed out shrewdly.
‘Writer-archivist privilege,’ Arc claimed smoothly.
Hmph. ‘Surely you don’t believe in ghosts,’ I snapped, ‘so I suppose you believe in second chances.’ It irritated me, this casual undeserved forgiveness.
‘How’s chapter three coming?’ she asked, deftly changing the subject. I admitted it was done and had just been submitted.
‘Then I’ll tell you this much,’ Arc said. ‘Ciyerra has paid her dues, and in return, I okayed her account. Now, why don’t you go amuse yourself at the Sanguinity game site?’ I bridled at her tone. Dismissive, I thought, and I felt quite disgruntled, and strangely flat.
At least, until I logged on, as so wisely suggested, at the Sanguinity game site. Arc, I saw at once, hadn’t been blowing me off at all. She’d been confiding in me, though with the utmost circumspect discretion.
‘Welcome to your Premium Account!’ enthused my avatar page. ‘You have received a gift of twelve months’ premium time, paid for by Ciyerra!’
1. The first recorded instance of pseuicide I could find happened in 1941.
2. At this rate, a gamespace Malfois estate wouldn’t be much more affordable than a real one. Bloody SecondLife.
3. BalletChic’s last post, her pseuicide note, is inspired by the note Amy Player left her parents. See Jeanine Renne's book for more on that whole...thing. Truth really is stranger than fiction.
4. sold out of both ‘Final Resting Place’ and ‘Ashes of Grief.’ A BPAL deathwank reference.
5. A few of them also sent me burned copies of a Very Special Podcast dedicated to BalletChic. I recently listened to a Very Special Podcast; my immediate response to said podcast was to roll my eyes and denounce it as sheer, attention-garnering horseshit. There are a lot of real tragedies in life; there are a lot of fake tragedies online.
6. weaving bracelets out of their own hair and mailing these off to people they especially wanted to be remembered by. Not only did the Victorians make hair wreaths, but Americans, during the Apache wars, made and wore hair jewellery. No, really. An amateur historian friend of mine once creeped me out rather badly when he asked me to...no, on second thought, I’m not finishing that story.
7. a sort of Shade of Fraud. I could not resist a “schadenfreude” pun.
8. BalletChic’s recently departed plebeian soul. Arguably an Anne Rice shoutout.
9. By next morning, mourning’s minions From GM Hopkins: "I caught this morning morning's minion..."
10. I've been unable to find any internet hauntings, but I did find some weirdness involving bringing a character over from the astral plane.
11. Prince Choronzon Erik Vladimir de Gravina: Choronzon was the 'demon of chaos' Crowley claimed to have raised; Erik is of course the Phantom of the Opera; and Vladimir is a shout-out to Dracula fans (as, arguably, is Mina).