App for mythopoeics
.the mundane;
» Name: Siobhan/Dorey
» Age: 18! (Will never get used to that…)
» Journal: DoreyG
» Contact: Doreyswan on AIM / DoreyG@Gmail.com
.the myth;
» Pantheon: Judeo-Christian
» God(dess): Penemue
» Reference: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penemue
» Family: {mother & father} God ; {spouse} Presumably various ~ladies~ in myth, but no firm one.
» Played By: James McAvoy
» Human Alias: William Arthur James Keats
» Human Age: 34 [23rd April 1977]
» Ability: People feel the vague urge to go and find out things around him. Unfortunately this urge usually fades when they go into a different room.
» Occupation: He owns a small, private bookstore named “Ink and Paper.” And is also an aspiring writer (…In that he writes two words and then grumbles for a month.)
» History: Penemue, unfortunately, isn’t given that much history in his myth. It is certain that he went down with the Watchers (the Grigori) to earth, slept with several people, fathered a few Nephilim and eventually fell because of his sins but apart from that he has eight lines and that’s about it.
It’s quite easy to infer some things, though. And so we can start with the fact that Penemue was never the most prominent angel, and never the most prominent beacon of angelic behaviour. He was one of the lower ranking ones, who rarely charged around everywhere waving their swords and vanquishing evil, and also one of the ones who was often a bit perplexed at God’s apparent love for humanity. They were stupid, after all, and preferred to stumble around without thought all day - he kept it quiet, didn’t really yell his feelings on humans all over the place, but certainly wasn’t likely to go around distributing gift baskets to them.
…So, it was quite a surprise when he was picked to go down and watch the humans.
Penemue, at the beginning, was one of the more standoffish Watchers. Preferring to actually watch (with a few disapproving tuts thrown in for good measure) rather than throwing himself in and cavorting around. But slowly his views started to change. Though most of the humans, in his eyes, were still fairly stupid there were a few who exhibited a desire for something greater than eating dirt and vaguely waving at the sky… And he, predictably since he’d always liked intelligence, rather took a shine to them.
Over the years he patiently (…Sort of patiently) sat down and taught the humans how to record their thoughts, their smarter thoughts, with ink and paper. He also took on the job of improving their understanding. Curing their stupidity and making them more aware of the world. And slowly, slowly, they started to learn! Started to record things, started to think beyond their tiny spheres and act like actually intelligent beings.
Needless to say, he was almost proud of them.
…Until the archangels came along, that is, and things went rather to hell for all the Watchers.
No specific punishment is mentioned for Penemue, unlike that poor bastard Azazel, so it can be assumed that he just suffered the general punishment for most of the Grigori. A swift fall and being bound in a fairly uncomfortable way.
After all of that there are no further mentions of Penemue or his displeasure at being bound so stupidly.
» Reincarnations: Penemue, being a bit smug about his intelligence, is quite proud of the fact that most of his reincarnations have been around the literary movers and shakers of their days.
His first reincarnation was born in southern Italy in 1227 and was known as Giovanni, the third son of a minor Italian noble and his slightly more distinguished wife. Even though the third son (and the fifth child out of seven overall) he was the favourite offspring of his mother and so was brought up to be rather spoilt, not to mention with a superiority complex the size of Italy.
Being a younger son, and a younger child at that, Giovanni was pretty much pushed towards being a priest from the moment he was pushed out of the womb. He started his education in such matters at the tender age of six and continued learning for the next few years. He went to the university of Paris in 1244, and so was present when the man known as Thomas Aquinus arrived. Kicking ass, taking names and laying the foundations of much Christian theology without a blink of an eye.
…Of course, this could’ve turned sour when Giovanni suddenly recalled who he was in 1246, at the still fairly tender age of nineteen.
However, this was only a could. Though Giovanni was spoilt, and had a habit of insulting the other boys around him without a moment of regret, he was also smart - and with the added, world weary smartness of Penemue he could easily see that revealing his true nature would hardly lead to adulation and parades. So he hid his nature, and was able to become one of Aquinus’ friends: taking part in intelligent discussions with only the occasional smirk allowed to surface.
They stayed friends, and Penemue stayed smart, until 1258 when he contracted a rather nasty cold. No matter, he sniffed haughtily, I was once an angel and a paltry cold will not hurt me in any way.
…Needless to say, he was very wrong. A week into his illness he collapsed while on his way to meet Aquinus and died a few days later at the age of 31. It was quite annoying.
Still, the circle of life moves on (even if he strongly disapproves of that term) and his second reincarnation was born as Henry Walters, the son of a reasonably rich merchant, in the Canterbury of 1560: but four years before the twin giants of theatre, Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare, entered the picture. He was, in fact, born in the same town as Christopher Marlowe. And so was one of his contemporaries growing up, and maintained a generally good relationship with him as a result.
…And only a good relationship, until he hit twelve years of age and remembered his identity. He was a bit younger this time, and so a little less cunning, but was still intelligent enough to realize that revealing his true identity would still not be a good idea at all. As such he kept it secret, with only a few stumbles, and formed a desire to meet the best thinkers of his day. To improve himself from all the common idiots around him.
This was accomplished, at the age of fifteen (fairly normal in those days) by his family sending him to Cambridge: one of the very best universities. He studied there for several years, several extremely smug years, and even took time out of his studies to tumble a few willing maids and even one or two willing stableboys… But, to his faint surprise, he could not summon the enthusiasm that had been vaguely present when he was still an angel. Sex was not horrible to him, no, but now he found his mind wondering to other matters while performing an act that should be entirely absorbing by all accounts.
…It was puzzling. But then Marlowe arrived after him and he largely forgot about it. He could see now, with the aid of his past life as an angel (and fallen angel, hush), that the boy had something special about him. And so determined to follow him and be around others much like him.
And yet again his goal was accomplished! By sticking close to Marlowe, and covertly encouraging his more… Secretive activities, Penemue was given the chance to follow him to London in 1587. And there, oh there, he met the best playwrights and actors of the day. A circle of intelligent, grand, amusing men who were busy crafting the finest words that’d ever been written.
Penemue maintained a friendly, and often flirty, relationship with Marlowe until his undignified death in 1593. And then, since the social circles of certain men often brushed closely together, transferred his attentions to the great William Shakespeare, the bard himself. Becoming an occasional actor and a good friend of the man, with a happy smirk at his good fortune thrown in.
These smirks grew more frequent over the years, as he avoided the ravages of the black plague (and as his fortieth birthday passed), and by the time he reached the grand old age of 45 in 1605 he practically considered himself invincible.
Unwise, really, for three days after reaching 45 a rather puritanical young man stabbed him in the street for carrying out the “devil’s work.” Penemue swayed for a second, murmured a brisk “for fuck’s sake” and collapsed. Dying a few hours later without regaining consciousness.
Then comes the third reincarnation, born in 1560, that he is never talking about. His name was Charles White, the fourth son of two peasants. He ate some dung, married a woman, had a few brats, never remembered who he was, never met any great literary minds and died at the age of 39 without doing a single notable thing. There, fine, moving on.
His fourth reincarnation was a lot more fortunate, at least by his standards. Born George Lytton, yet again another minor nobleman (but British this time), in 1788 he was perfectly poised to join the people surrounding romantic poets such as Byron and Shelley, and did so with aplomb. He remembered who he was at eighteen, the same year that he decided to attend Cambridge again, and was canny enough to realize that times had changed just a little. Though he couldn’t get away with declaring himself as the fallen angel Penemue, that’d just look silly, he could use his knowledge of such things to write darkly dramatic verses that’d make the people around him nod in a firm and generally fierce way.
…And so he did, and could roughly be described as part of the circle of romantic poets (and just plain romance) that surrounded Byron until he decided to desert England in 1816. Penemue did not go so far as to follow him into exile, damned overdramatic humans, but he did visit several times and also managed to maintain a vaguely cordial relationship with Mary Shelley, another great to boast smugly of.
Unfortunately, however, He was fated to live about as long as Byron in his fourth life. Two months after Byron died trying to defeat the Ottomans (…What the hell, Byron) Penemue fell ill with a nasty cold and decided to stay in bed this time, to be sensible.
Unfortunately being sensible was the wrong decision this time. As an arsonist, yet again screaming out about his crimes against the lord (honestly, everybody had flirted vaguely with Byron - it’s not like he summoned up the enthusiasm to sleep with him!), set fire to his house when he was trying to sleep it off. He died in 1824, at the rather grumpy age of 36.
He didn’t have to wait long until his fifth life came along, though. And when it did come along he almost considered building a shrine to that lovely arsonist (…Except not, because that’d be stupid.) Penemue’s next reincarnation was born as James King in 1860. This time he wasn’t a member of the nobility, just smarter than most of them, but that was starting to matter a little less every day. He remembered who he was at fifteen this time, with a merry roll of his eyes since he was the spoilt only child of a ambitious father and doting mother, and decided to go to Oxford (for a change) in 1877. There to study English Literature with some rather amusing Philosophy on the side.
It was there he met Oscar Wilde.
It was there he met Oscar Wilde. And, after completing his degree two years after Wilde had departed, set off for Dublin in 1880. Determined to find the man and stick to him like glue.
In the end, in the end, he did. And so followed Wilde back to London when he decided to move there in roughly 1881. They moved in the same social circles for the next fourteen years or so, the next happy fourteen years or so, and Penemue was quite smug about his luck. He was friends with the wittiest man in London, what could possibly go wrong?
…Well.
When Wilde, against Penemue’s pointed advice, decided to enter the legal courts (and jail, as a result.) Penemue very quietly packed his bags and escaped to Paris to avoid any danger. He thought that the courts were being remarkably stupid, of course, since it was really none of their business - but he was a cunning man, and he didn’t desire the ravages of jail one bit. In Paris, to avoid all suspicion, he married a nice French woman who was perfectly alright with his ever growing indifference towards sex. They produced one son together, a fairly healthy boy, and she had many lovers to the side. Ones which Penemue didn’t really mind, since he had many books and the privilege of making his son one of the most intelligent boys around.
This time, to his annoyance, death came from a largely ignored case of Pneumonia in 1910. He died with his wife and son at his side, and a grumbling curse upon his lips.
His sixth reincarnation, the elaborately named William Arthur James Keats (William Shakespeare, Arthur Conan Doyle, James Joyce: as his mother was fond of reminding him), was born in Edinburgh on the 23rd April 1977. The only son and last child of two university professors. He had two older sisters, though one was only a year older than him and the other barely managed three, and together they were brought up to be fiercely intelligent, to question everything and to generally have a superiority complex that could smother a fully grown man.
Penemue, as was almost traditional by this point, remembered who he was a few weeks before he turned fifteen. And promptly used this knowledge to sabotage his sister’s R.E essay (it was a very competitive house, for his parents were very pushy people.) After that minor triumph, he took his bows at the time, he took a few weeks to fully come to terms with it and then generally accepted it. He was a fallen angel, he was smarter than anybody else. Neither of these, in his eyes, were things to be ashamed of.
At eighteen, with outstanding A-levels that he happily flashed everywhere, he was again accepted into the University of Cambridge without a moments delay... Unfortunately, due to his general nature, he made few friends and angered many people. But he made a few links with likeminded individuals (including a man who would later be a cop and become very important to him) and left Cambridge with a lazy 2:2. Smirking at the lack of applause from certain individuals.
After Cambridge he made the decision, the stubborn decision, to move with his noble, soon to be a policeman friend to Oxford. And rented an apartment with him, unwilling to get his own. He waited for two years or so, in a rather expectant manner, but eventually watched with dismay as none of his circle wrote great books or became acclaimed playwrights. It was very disappointing.
And so he decided to write a novel of his own! …Which is fairly misleading as a dramatic opener, really, since he still hasn’t managed to write a novel. Instead he spent most of his time in the second hand bookshop that he used to fund his ambitions of stardom, and happily wrote two words a month while thinking himself a great man.
This happy state of vague slobdom continued for ten years, ten years spent still living with his now policeman friend. But then Penemue spotted several extremely old, extremely valuable first editions of certain writers. And decided to go for them, dubious morality be damned. He brought them to his shop, joyfully paged through them and then left them while he went to make a cup of tea.
…Left them, for anybody to see.
Including his policeman friend, as it happens. Who noticed the illegality of them and alerted his superiors, giving Penemue two days warning to pack anything that he needed and run for it.
Penemue, feeling betrayed and berating his friend’s idiocy every step of the way, thus promptly packed his bags and was on the next flight to New York that very night… Which means that he’s been here for a year now, actually, slowly becoming aware of his other brothers and yet keeping himself secret as he purchased another bookshop, started getting a faint profit in and grumbled at the world in general an awful lot.
But now he is fully settled, and has started grumbling at the world in general a little less…
Which, of course, is cue for him to be perfectly sensible and reveal himself. Because that won’t lead to any hoity toity irritation, not at all.
» Personality: To be perfectly honest you could just put “grumpy bastard” in this section and that’d explain pretty much all of him. But! Do not fear, I intend to go into more detail than that.
…Even if he is a grumpy bastard, to be perfectly honest. Rarely can a smile be coxed from his lips, it has been postulated that if he ever truly laughed it might just destroy the universe. Penemue appears to be permanently annoyed by everything, and is often prone to grumbling and acting generally like a bit of a git as a result.
You know those people who seem to be constantly irritated, if only in a faint way? Yes, Penemue is one of those people. And quite proudly so. The world is, in his eyes, a rather idiotic place at times - he feels perfectly justified in expressing his displeasure at this in a constant level of sulky grumbling and heartfelt glaring.
A lot of this irritation does stem from him considering the world an entirely stupid place. He was once “the curer of stupidity in man” and so still despises all signs of stupidity in present day. He just wishes that people would be intelligent instead of drooling in bed, drooling on their desk and going home to get a nice bit of drooling in before dinner. He despises stupidity, in all its forms, and since he sees so much of it around that definitely adds to the constant level of irritation.
He could, however, be said to bring it upon himself: mainly through his superiority complex. In Penemue’s mind he is automatically smarter, more experienced and just better than pretty much everybody else. He considers himself above the mortal man, above their petty squabbles and idiotic stumblings. He even considers himself above most gods: although, around his fallen siblings, he makes a cursory effort to pretend that he’s not that much better than them.
Granted, he does have some reason to feel himself vaguely superior. He is a genius, attending Cambridge and gaining amazing A level results, and does understand things awfully fast. He loves reading, as expected from a fallen angel who taught humans the arcane mysteries of “ink and paper”, and does a lot of it, broadening his mind in the process. And it is certain that he knows many things, even if they could be said to be just useless facts.
But this genius is constrained, in a way, by his natural laziness and also by his superiority complex. He considers himself far beyond humanity, anyway - why should he exert himself when he is already the best in his field? This attitude was what led to him getting a 2:2 instead of a shining first at Cambridge, and this attitude is also responsible for him writing about 200 words of his novel in the past ten or so years.
His genius is also constrained by his personality, and how passionate he can be. To put it simply: if you know what buttons to press (hurt a book or act in a stupid manner) it is quite easy to incite Penemue into an angry rant against the stupidity of humanity and, often, the injustices of the world. In this state he often abandons logic and is left waving his arms and shouting loudly. Definitely something that tends to restrict geniuses.
But one area that he isn’t so passionate about, surprisingly enough, is sex. It isn’t that he hates sex, it isn’t that he can’t have it or else he’ll burst into flames and consume every book in a three mile radius. He’s just found, over the years, that there are more interesting things to do: like reading, or stimulating games of chess. He still recognizes the power of sex, knows very well that people have died because they couldn’t keep their pants on, but sees it as more of a means to a end than a actual end, as more of a tool for, perhaps, teaching people the facts of life (in his view) than as a enjoyable process in itself.
This passion, however, has been almost replaced by a passion for books and the learning you can do with the help of books. As stated above: Penemue was the angel who taught the humans how to write and tried to cure their stupidity while he was at it. As such he is almost proud of the amount of books on offer and would happily stay amongst them forever. It could be said, if you were in a particularly bitchy mood, that he almost loves his books more than his family.
He does care for his family a little, though - especially his fellow fallen ones. He basically knows that they’re in the same boat, even if he considers inciting rebellions and peddling cosmetics not as vital as books, and sincerely hopes that they share his frustration with their non-fallen brothers. Granted, he may pick a anthology of Shakespeare over their well being: but usually he will take a (vaguely) sincere interest in their lives and will probably help them out if it’s not too time consuming.
Back to the borderline frustration with non-fallen brothers, specifically the archangels. Penemue, not to put too fine a point on it, considers the archangels to be utterly stupid. He forms this opinion mainly due to the fact that they seemed to object to teaching the humans things. Honestly, do they want people to be dumb? …Well, obviously. And that quite displeases him. As such he’s likely to berate the archangels a lot, and maybe throw a few books at them since it’d obviously help.
This mild frustration extends, although slightly muted, to God, the big guy in the sky. As far as Penemue is concerned God pretty much told the archangels to try and make humanity stupid again and that is not cool, big guy. However, Penemue has never tried to deny the existence of his father and never will - he doesn’t worship, as such, but when he gets drunk he will usually reserve a toast up at the sky (and he really hopes you appreciate that, father.)
He mainly reserves this toast because he feels, apart from the whole falling and being bound thing, that his father (who has to be responsible for his reincarnations, come on) has actually been pretty generous to him. Over his five (he is not counting that dung eating one, thank you very much) lives he has been lucky enough to be reincarnated next to Aquinus, Marlowe, Shakespeare, Byron and even Wilde. Thanks, father dear, he actually loves you for that.
And, also, because such connections give him great boasting room. Penemue is definitely smug about the literary talent he’s associated with, and will probably boast about it a great deal. No modesty, no keeping things secret: he will name-drop like a pro and smirk at all the poor people who, in his eyes, haven’t had the luck.
This is because, when you get down to it, Penemue is oddly proud of all writers and regards them in a highly positive manner. If you have ever started a work of fiction then he is likely to look upon you as better than a judge (judges are boring, anyway, and some of the laws are just plain stupid) and treat you with some respect. An odd thing, for Penemue rarely treats anybody with respect.
For he’s a very judgemental person, is Penemue, and makes little effort to hide it. He judges everybody he meets, and honestly believes that some people have more value than others. The only people he’s likely to automatically regard with more than a casual snootiness are writers and his fallen brothers, most other people have to prove themselves (and are unlikely to ever prove themselves, thanks to his absurdly high standards.)
So, Penemue makes no secret of his judging of people. And also makes no secret of his general scorn for others. This usually works its way out in sarcasm, for Penemue is very dry and often vicious about it too. He sees no need to constrain his tongue or be polite to anybody, if he thinks that you’re acting stupidly he will tell you so and sees no need to be kind about it either.
The thing about Penemue is that he likes wriggling. Worming under the skin of a person, finding their triggers and poking them whenever they annoy him. He delights in getting under the skin of people, and if they properly annoy him he will use the knowledge he’s learned to attempt to visit severe pain upon them. He can definitely be rather vindictive, especially if you insult the art of writing or show yourself to be utterly stupid, and will happily attempt to take down anybody if they really grate on him.
This isn’t to say that he has no preservation instinct, if a hungry bear is growling at him he’ll definitely take the running option, but he’s certainly lacking a substantial one. This is because of his arrogance, he automatically considers himself better than anybody else and so often fails to take sensible precautions. This arrogance has led to his death four times now, and yet he’s still failed to learn from it.
Overall, then, Penemue is technically a genius but one lacking in most common sense. He is sarcastic, grumpy and extremely judgemental. But is also fond of books, reasonably ready to aid his brothers and a strong crusader against the brutal enemy of stupidity… Whether he does this in a sensible way, on the other hand, is a entirely different matter.
» Journal: Unrestingdemon
» Sample Journal: No, you idiotic man, I will not search out that book for you. Can’t you see that I’m busy with more important things than indulging your idiotic bluster? I’ve known Shakespeare, man, I have no need to lower myself to your brainless level just because you demand it of me.
And, yes, I am judging you for wanting that book. Who reads gardening books? Who reads gardening books in New York? Drooling fools, that’s who, and drooling fools are not allowed in my shop next to my nice, clean, pristine books. Please take your greasy fingers elsewhere, and allow the sensible adults to laugh over your fat head.
Oh, and hello. For anybody who might be interested in my presence. All the archangels, certainly, and hopefully the three vaguely sensible ones…
» Sample Roleplay: People are idiots.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, unfortunately, but that doesn’t mean that everybody should just shut up about it and lead their lives accepting the fact. That’d be properly stupid, and he does loathe properly stupid people with a passion that’d quite astound some.
He sits in the corner of the library, and watches people passing with narrow eyes.
They don’t properly appreciate this hallowed hall of books, they don’t properly understand what their lives would be like without the magic of words flowing into their every moment. That young couple over there, the ones muffling giggles in a annoying way, they don’t realize that they are wasting their brains on such matters when a world of wonder waits around them. That old man taking out books on gardening, he doesn’t realize that but a lick of Wilde would be far more interesting than any flower could ever hope to be. The little toddler drooling merrily on some useless cardboard, it doesn’t realize that it should use its tiny brain to learn proper things instead of just having a normal, fruitless childhood.
After all, a book was shoved into his hands the moment he learned how to work his opposable thumbs. And he never experienced any problems because of that.
…Well, no severe ones.
He grumbles, returns to his own pile of books with a sharp roll of his eyes at the idiots surrounding him. Shakespeare wouldn’t have ignored the wealth of knowledge around him to flirt foolishly, Marlowe wouldn’t have allowed any other interests to intrude upon his writing, Byron wouldn’t have squandered his life away drooling and gurgling and-
…Okay, so perhaps they would’ve. And would’ve done so with great joy and a finger stuck up in the direction of society.
But he doesn’t have to acknowledge that, as he grumbles to himself and turns another page. Content in his own, undeniable, church of ink and paper (take that, bloody archangels.)