Pity is the virtue of losers.
Mercy, the gift of the courageous.
Pride, the condition of generosity.
Pity is the virtue of losers.
To be truly miserable, to be tragic as gods: How else could we ever know happiness or success? Polytheism knew well the benefits and dangers of how to forget: with fire, iron, blood. It is a virtue that is an “unknown unknown” among us.
I am Torsche Veragaard, but most simply call me Hungerfield. Treasure-hunting is my profession. Really though, I simply like to experience new and sometimes forbidden planets because I like being where no one has been or where none are allowed to go.
My family is large. I am the youngest of four brothers and four sisters. I love my family but I had to leave their home on earth. My siblings came in sets of twins. First Andrew and Chris were born; identical twins. Then Edith and Rebecca, also identical. Next, Sophie and Stannislav. And finally, Zack and Triana.
Skip to my mother’s death and I am born. My mother, Linda Bloom, was an animal trainer and veterinarian. She married my father, Olaf Veragaard, a genetic engineer. It took him a long time to warm up to me, if he ever did …
I am on good terms with my family. The brothers all became rocket scientists and the sisters all became artists. As a young child, I made friends with a group of sprites that lived in the forest near my family’s industrial farming complex. They took me to their homeland, taught me their language, and showed me how to be a spritely warrior. I spent what seemed to be a lifetime among my sprite friends, whom my family referred to as “imaginary”—but they just turned invisible when my siblings came around. When I returned from the sprite homeland, I discovered that several years had passed, that I had been declared missing and presumed dead. I also discovered that during my absence my father had died.
Upon returning home, a strange ship crashed about 3 miles away from our farm. It contained hideous aliens that killed and destroyed many of the animals and workers on our farm. My family and a few workers survived because my “imaginary” friends and a mysterious nymph (whom I fell irreversibly in love with) fought them off as a boon to me for adventuring with them. I have nightmares and sleepless nights when I dream of the aliens.
I keep to myself when no one else is around.
No, I have never killed anybody.
I want to learn alien languages and marry the mysterious nymph who saved me and my family from the aliens.
I wield a whip, bolas, net, greatsword, my fists and feet, and mithral breast plate. I wear a t-shirt that says, “NO FAT CHICKS.”
I do good if I can. At least, I do no evil.
Good can arise spontaneously or be so cultivated by method. True good is to create a method that accomplishes lots of “little good” spontaneously.
I freak out when I’m near cold-iron. To touch it causes me terrible agony.
My passions are danger and play.
I’m good but I’m not a paladin about it!
Monotheism always creates itself out of a Wrathful God, that is, a Resentful God. A petty God who is a banker-judge, who keeps exact accounts (of pain, sin, trauma) and exacts payment in full, often with severe interest (“seventy times seven”). A God of archive and memory–God of civilized culture.
Rage never treats anger as a decoration, polished like a trophy in a glass case.
Rage obeys rules; it does not follow laws. In this sense there is an analogy with Desire, “Que nous veulent les lois du juste et de l’injuste!”
Abstract war, Fake war: on drugs and on terror. Blood is certainly shed. But where the conflict?