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This page is for meta commentary on Galahad and playing him.

He also has a [character livejournal].

The player nabbed most of her research and textual references [here].

The Lady of Shalott

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls,

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

"I am half-sick of shadows," said

The Lady of Shalott.

--from "The Lady of Shalott," Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Galahad's fourth wall has been a little blurry from the beginning.

Perhaps somewhere in the Mess there is a woman who dreamed him; that character hasn't been invented yet, beyond a vague sense of her that Galahad has -- very much a dim image in a mirror.

ojou shrugs slowly. "Not everybody can live my way. My sister is up to her ass in everything... Makes me sick, sometimes. She's in Top, screamin' on a soapbox."

Galahad grins at the image. "What is she screaming about?"

ojou closes his eyes, murmuring quietly, as if reading from a script or recital. "Get off yer ass, kid. You think stayin' here is gonna' make your life easier? Hell. No. When things creep in, you're gonna' be off-guard as you are now, watchin' me like a train wreck... Can't take yer eyes off 'cause I'm a shock, a teaser, the world is bigger than this fake shit you got here..."

Galahad chuckles at first, but the sound is quiet and falls into silence almost instantly, his expression becoming subdued. His eyes take on a glazed, inward-gazing look. "Perhaps they need her. So aggressive an act of love... But... some of them, I think, see the hollowness of comfort. An emotional landscape flat and vague... life with no obstacles, and so never any highs... the grey plain fades to black in its stagnation, misery so oppressive because one is taught to believe there is nothing better, everything is perfect, to want more is to want the impossible is to be... somehow broken in your soul..." His face becomes drawn, sympathy stabbing inward from this strange fugue of comprehension, and he grits his teeth against the wave of anguish, strangely gone as soon as it rises up.

Is that a way of life that sounds at all familiar?

Galahad's creator is his creator, and his instantion took place because his player wanted him in the Mess. And this can make him a little tricky to play.

Galahad isn't allowed to stray from his archetype. He isn't allowed to abuse the power given to him. He isn't allowed to become bitter, jaded, or despondent. When these things take root in him, he starts to die. He's not allowed to have his heart broken by the world, even though he's a romantic character living in a postmodern setting where bad things do happen to good people. It isn't the anachronism of his archetype alone that makes him out of place. He's trying to be pure and heroic in a world where heroism may just ammount to holding onto wonder and benevolence no matter what. But he has people he wants to protect, and when they come to harm, the injustice of it hits him hard each time.

Galahad nuzzles back roughly, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. The pain of her fingertips bruising his back is an oddly sweet comfort. "No... no, no, no... I want to pick you up and carry you back out. I want to throw open the doors. But I've done such a poor job of keeping you safe. I can promise you nothing... only that you never suffer alone..."

Trilogee reaches up to steal a kiss, chortling weakly. "Can you keep safe a woman who would rather live in the woods than in the castle?"

Galahad shakes his head, beginning to sob brokenly. "...Failed," he rasps. "Failed, before even being able to try. Cannot protect you from this world. Cannot... make it right..." At its joints and seams his metal limbs seems to lose their luster, a patina of cold, dead grey slowly taking hold upon the gold.

Trilogee clings softly, gasping heavily. "Love, no..."

Galahad chokes on his sobs, the strength of his embrace beginning to slacken. His skin looks ashen, his eyes dull. And all over, he is growing colder. "How do I fight despair?" He forces out the words. "...Why... why can't I see the path, anymore?"

He's in the position of having to find answers to dilemmas that stump his player. He's thwarted a bit by being a character on MUCK and not in a book -- his player often misses things he would want to be present for. He was never meant to be quite as fragile as he's turning out, but he's very vulnerable because of the weakness of his fourth wall. The hardest part about playing him is trying to keep the player's faults from manifesting in the character and destroying him. "How terrible is purity," indeed.

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