So, this has led to the recent spat of back to back D&D stories. Well, to try and break some of the monotony, I'm going to post a bit of my creative process instead. As a forewarning, this is my rough work so is wholly unedited as it isn't really meant to see the light of day. This is more akin to a quick peek at someone's unmentionables. They're worn for comfort but with the sole expectation that others won't see them.
(But why do we buy ones with such interesting designs then, you ask. Well... shut up. The analogy works. Sort of.)
The current story I'm working on is a lighthearted idea at land piracy. Since I knew I was going to be running a facsimile of a crew, I needed to have a collection of fairly detailed individuals to populate my "ship" with. To set about defining and developing these individuals, I had two important steps. The first was to come up with a base outline - a bunch of thoughts and idea of this character's appearance and personality.
So, let's take the example of the first mate.
Here is my character sketch for Walter Samuel Schroeder:
Walton Samuel Schroeder (Schroeder) –
Second in command. Landed gentry, old world blood and attitude, the
youngest son of a colonial governor and plantation owner.
Insufferable gambler and louse whose debts often precede his
reputation. Daddy cut him off from his stipends in an effort to curb
his limitless spending. But 'just because we live in the colonies
doesn't mean we have to live like a colonial.' Instead of finding
honest work and pay turned to the life of an outlaw. Hates his name
and usually referred by his last. Breast pockets, polished shoes,
clean shaves, stacked decks and imported alcohol are his trademarks.
From here, I took some time to try and write a scene from their perspective. I find working from a character's point of view and trying to see the world through their eyes really helps to bring them to life in my mind. When forced to consider their ideals and put them in conflicts that they must react to do I develop more and more of their personality. For this exercise, I chose to write them in a "bubble" that would try and extract as much of their personality as I could. I took a setting that I felt really encapsulated the idea I had for them and tried to create a situation that would shine them in the most revealing light. This also gives me the added bonus of developing and playing with my setting in ways that may never come up in the story proper.
For my insufferable gambler, this manifested in a paddle boat casino:
Walton Samuel Schroeder II
“If you ain't holding aces and
eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”
A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke
was the response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A
sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it
attention. Their focus was more on the read of the other. They
searched for some unforgiving tell.
Neither could be more unalike. Bradley
Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains
and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin that seemed
cracked and split from the long years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath
this crooked derbie – a mess of black and silver caked with the
dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a
bulbous nose that flared any time the man's ire rose.
Which, if his epitaph were accurate,
was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had a fearsome reputation on the
plains as he did at the table. He took no prisoners and he gave no
quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did passed
judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging sack by his side.
Almost all paid in the end. If
careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.
But every caravan needed its mule and
the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany
seemed like tonight's.
And Walton Samuel Schroeder II looked
the fool.
He lounged amongst a throne of silken
cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some
exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned
crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before
waving with his right.
On cue, a second exquisite creature
slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder
raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into
him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his
stylish silken vest. Elegant curving patterns of the western peoples
depicted stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.
Or were they Eastern styles? If there
was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat,
it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their
nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides than any
alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses
blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood
deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying
dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.
And Schroeder breathed it all in. The
dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the
evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash
of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter
was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness, it always
washed away to be the same.
And with the tailored legs of his
pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the
air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild
open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the
younger man's. And its king was getting restless.
“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder
intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across
the sea, “but this voyage ain't getting shorter. You'll be putting
down that hand either way but if you be parading their pretty little
faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”
He patted the tabletop with a pristine
white glove.
Untamed Meyer's nostrils flared.
He bent the tips of his cards. It was
his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the
nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps
he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the
empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring
daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol
handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an
effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their
coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing
the people, it was a disastrous assumption.
“I ain't be aiming to wait for this
wine to get better.”
Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did
something quite extraordinary.
He played his hand.
With dismay, Schroeder watched the
traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of
nines.
It wasn't a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far
more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt the young man to
himself for a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer's hand but
revealed the gambler for the cheat he was.
And yet, that was a lot of money to be
had on the table.
Schroeder set down his cup.
“How modest but the world is not
made by small hands.”
Schroeder revealed twin aces from his
hand. He stood holding, offering his foe an apologetic shrug.
“Perhaps next time.”
The young man began to collect his ill
gotten gains.
But Bradley Meyer burst from his
chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the
wood mere inches from Schroeder's glove. The ladies on the couch
gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men
began to quiet.
“I want to see the rest.”
“You've been beat, my fellow.
Perhaps it's best to accept your-”
Meyer snatched the young man's pinned
cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.
“Show me.”
His lips snarled, revealing a set of
yellow and rotted keys protruding from his gums. The decayed stench
of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed
beneath thick, bushy dark brows.
Schroeder coughed.
“Very well.”
The hand released his throat and he
stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He turned and
coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while
his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely
cocked her head back.
Schroeder turned back, smiling. He
bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back
and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he
displayed the three remaining cards, slowly turning over a seven of
swords.
“And the next.”
Schroeder wiggled his right fingers
before turning over a six of coins.
“One more.”
At last he felt the brim of his cap
pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from
its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the
dead warriors eyes and musing if, perchance, that were not some
mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a
foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground
of confidence.
“The coup de grace!”
Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer's
face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as
much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting
the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped
towards his ally who rubbed at the sting where the card struck his
skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When
next he turned to his rival, Schroeder's polished shoe was connecting
with his temple.
“Ladies, as always, it's been a
pleasure!”
He tossed a handful of coins at the
cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck.
Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol chased after him.
“I'll split you from nose to navel
you weasel!”
The party gave a gasp as the gentleman
burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap bouncing
in his pack, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the
dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer's deck. This was
not a jaunty two-step but nor was it an unfamiliar dance to
Schroeder's feet.
“Pardon me, ma'am,” he offered as
he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving
girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the
tables.”
She stared back from a dark,
uncomprehending face as he bound down the stain wood corridor.
Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his
pursuer was hot on his tail.
A lady of delicate fortitude gave a
shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her
great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself,
puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his
hat in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered
condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of
thunder announced Meyer's volley.
Schroeder took to his heels once more.
Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons
investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman
twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting out upon the deck
of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the rail, attempting to
gauge his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling
from its ropes just off the port bow.
The crash behind him was all the
motivation he needed. As raised voices echoed out the corridor, he
put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing
roughly on the floor below. Guests gave a great shout and men stood
from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the
distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed.
He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on the knees.
And he'd just purchased these trousers.
He cast a quick look skyward.
Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping
his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the
wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder
gave the man a cheeky wave.
The ruffian raised his pistol,
unloading a round at the scampering man.
But now things had gone too far.
A few of the patrons turned to their
own coats, retrieving their own pistols to bear against the
unprovoked shooter. With circumstances unclear, these free men were
not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasure night
of cards.
Meyer ducked behind the rail,
returning what fire he could. Tables were overturned to the shrieks
of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as the horn blared in a
futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer
emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but
unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck,
crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.
Bullets struck tables, splintering
debris in worrying close proximity as he slid his hat. He paused
before one table still upright, his hand snaking to its surface and
patting its way until he caught the slim stem of the crystal glass.
He brought to wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising
it to his dry throat.
He motioned to pass on but caught the
distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her
heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the
crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead
and presenting a flourish to his departure.
The lady was quick to quiet her
nerves.
A stamping of boots and shouts
signalled reinforcement to the confusion and Schroeder peered over
the lip of a table to gauge the development. A man in crisp Thyrian
military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his
hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air
for attention. A brief respite was bought in the firefight.
“This disturbance is over by decree
of her majesty!”
Alas, the great tributaries of the
Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron
influence of the loyalists. There was much bad blood that had washed
down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and
Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and
trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of
the rail works, running own the spine of that unbridled land where
only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.
The soldier would have been better
served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an
older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.
It was seconds before some embittered
separatist cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the
well to do red suit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his
senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the wood about him.
And it was all perfect for Schroeder.
He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jangle
for going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. The rope was
wound tighter than a lady's bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped
against their damp cords.
A bullet sang past his head as he
threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure
pandemonium had taken over the preceding. Turning back to the
reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the
support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer's side. Each pound
of his foot caused the boat the slam loudly against the deck.
Eventually, the wood cracked beneath
his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give
beneath his fingers.
As he turned to the other side, he
smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek
dark black dress with great deep purple bustle that seemed to shimmer
in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather
beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few
moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an
extraordinary long knife.
“May I?” Schroeder offered with a
bow.
The woman turned, as if noticing the
gentleman for the first time.
“You may, good sir.”
She placed the handle gently in his
outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady
onto the rail and into the raft.
“Take this end, I'll loosen the
other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured
support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent
rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it
tightly as it began to fray.
“You are quite the gentleman,” the
lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She
held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.
“Perhaps we shall meet again
someday.”
“Why delay?” Schroeder smiled,
stepping to the rail. She gave a brief smile as she placed her hand
on his chest.
“'Tis only proper. I'm afraid I must
bid you ado.”
She waved the knife at him, but only
customarily as she took the rope from his hands.
“It has been most pleasurable, good
sir.”
And with that, she let the ropes
release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below.
Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and
pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the
dress shifting like an intoxicating wine about her shoulders as she
dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a
farewell salute.
Schroeder afforded a brief moment to
watch her go.
“My boy, you've got to stop falling
for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”
But then she tossed his hat casually
into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.
“That was custom fitted!” he
shouted.
A smash of metal into wood brought him
back to reality. Schroeder glanced back at the mayhem overtaken the
gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the
grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he
mounted the rail, took a deep breath and plunged into the waves.
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