Character/Script analysis methods

These don't come from anywhere but my own head.  The methods I use when deciding how to portray a character.

Word choice - This gives an idea of the character's level of education and the way he thinks, as well as what interests he may have.  Does he use simple words, or does he select longer, more descriptive words?  Does he say that he's angry, or mad, or incensed?  Did he buy some flowers, or did he buy some magnolias?  Does he drive a car, or does he drive a Chevy?  When talking about another character, does he call her a girl, or a woman, or a bitch?  The choice of word will tell you the character's attitude toward the subject of the speech.

Choice of phrases and sentence structure - This falls under speech patterns.  A person will fall into such patterns without thinking about it at all.  This gives insight to the character's background.  Do they speak powerfully - action verbs, positive assertions - or negatively - passive structure, more questions than statements?  Are they self-assured or do they lack confidence?  Are his patterns used by people from Boston, or from Liverpool?  Find out where he's from, and you know what sports he follows plus his favorite team.  You might get an idea of his politics.  Does he form his sentences carefully, or does he blurt it out?  This might tell you how honest the character is, or how precisely they want to express themselves.  Does the character use foreign phrases, and if he does, does he use them correctly?  He may have traveled the world, or he may just want you to think he has.  Does he stutter?  His thoughts may be too fast for his mouth.  Does he pause in odd places (Captain Kirk)?  He may be thinking more slowly and deliberately.

Choice of image - Well we can always drag out the platitude that a picture is worth a thousand words.  The image that the character's words conjures is a more direct view into his psyche.  Is it violent?  Serene?  Comical?  These are the pictures running through his head all the time - the thoughts before they are put into words.  They give the most insight of the character's emotional state.

  Now, IF the teacher means choice of image as in how the character looks, this is entirely different.  This is how the character visually presents himself to the public, and it tells us how important he thinks image is, plus the particular sort of person he wants to appeal to.  Kind of like your t-shirt message - what do you tell people by the way you dress and groom yourself?  I don't think that this is what was meant, but your mom pointed out that it was possible.

Choice of peculiar characteristics.  Some of what I put into phrases and sentence structures may belong here.  Dialect tells us where he spent his formative years.  Stuttering - emotional state.  Pausing - need to think.  Clearing the throat - need to be heard.  This is more "in the moment" than sentence structure - these are the things you say and do with your voice more in the moment, and with less thought.  Do you say "huh?" or "eh?"  This might tell the listener whether you're American or Canadian.  If you say "WTF?" then you spend a lot of time on the Internet.  Does the character call them fireflies, or lightning bugs?  If the former, they're from the South, if the latter, they're from the North.  Do they say "blacks" or "colored people" or "darkies" or do they use more offensive phrases?  This tells us not only their attitudes toward minorities, but also region they're from and how old they are.  These things are so ingrained that the character doesn't even think about them.

Structure of lines and speeches - This is, if I understand right, how often the character speaks, why do they speak, how long do they speak?  This probably falls mostly under motive.  Do they stay in the background, only speaking occasionally?  That's a watcher.  When the do speak, do they come to the point and stop?  If so then they expect people to get it the first time.  Do they ramble on?  Might not have a clear thought process.  Do they repeat themselves?  Maybe they don't think you heard or understood - or maybe they don't think that they expressed it well enough the first time.  Are they sharing information, like a teacher?  Are they sharing opinions?  Do they actually orate?  Or do they prefer back-and-forth exchanges?  The difference may tell us how important they think other people are?

There's a lot of bleedover between these categories, which makes it hard to answer this question clearly.  But the bleedover is good - it helps affirm each aspect of the character.  Plus, when you put all this together, you get an idea of what it is that the character ISN'T saying - and this (the subtext) is probably even more important than what they do say. 

Josef - D&D character background story

 Raised by his mother, Josef was a rather spoiled child.  He never wanted for anything, including pocket money, provided he attended daily lessons.  When younger, that was spent on sweets, so that he never really lost his baby fat.  As his mind expanded and he learned to read, his daily diet of empty calories began to include penny dreadfuls - adventure stories with no real literary value, chock-full of villains up to no good, heroes being all noble, damsels being distressed, and, of course, unrealistic portrayals of derring-do.  How Jo avoided tooth decay we may never know, but he developed a very bad case of mental cavities:  hero worship.  His favorite type was the Noble Thief - he strikes from the shadows, to bring low those who abuse their wealth and power!  Usually in the motif of some forest animal.

Most families apprentice their sons out when they grow big enough to do some real work - generally, about seven years old or so.  Sorcerers, being untrusting of strangers, like to keep it in the family, and therefore prefer to apprentice their own children.  At least, that's how it was with Josef's father Gamelon.  When Gamelon decided it was time to train up an apprentice, Josef was already thirteen, well into a rebellious streak, unfocused, and much more interested in rescuing damsels than in scrubbing cauldrons.  He was, however, bright, learned quickly, and forgot nothing.  These traits worked against everyone involved.

After one year of drudgery, the boy had formulated his plan of escape. He would cast a disguise spell, take a modest amount of funds and a single book (not enough to warrant a real search; surely he'd never be missed by such a cruel father), and travel to the Big City, there to Make his Fortune and Become a Hero (tm). 

After two years, he had a vague idea of how hard that was going to be.

After the third year, he grabbed the first spellbook he found unlocked, a single gem, and scarpered.  A few miles away, he stopped to examine his loot.  Only one spell contained within the tome looked anything like a spell of transformation, so he cast it directly from the page.  Josef promptly blacked out.  When he awoke, the page was blank.

Jo rushed to a nearby pond to inpect his handiwork.  Did he changed to a dwarf?  A grizzled soldier?  A DRAGON?  

The reflection that gazed back had dark, curly hair, emerald-green eyes, a slightly rounded face, and a pouty expression.  It looked like Jo.  Vastly disappointed, he heaved a great sigh, and trudged to a tree to relieve himself. One soaked pair of trousers later, Jo learned the extent of the spell's effect.

After congratulating himself upon the perfect disguise (Gamelon would never be searching for a runaway daughter), Jo began to wonder why his sorcerous father had such a spell in his collection.  It wasn't long before such speculation was put away, never to be examined again.

Back on the path, Josef flagged down a cart, a farmer and family taking some produce to the city for sale, and continued the journey in the back with the wife and children.  Conversation was awkward, and went somewhat along these lines:

Mother: "Where are you going, dear?"

Jo (in falsetto): "To the city, to seek my fortune."

Child 1: "What's wrong with your voice?"

Jo (coughing): "uh, Nothing."

Child 2: "You smell like wee."

Jo: "I, uh, had an accident..."

Mother: "Oh, it's all right, here, you can borrow a skirt and wash your trousers in the stream at our next stop."

By midday the cart had reached the gates.  With one foot on the streets, a blur of motion, and someone small & quick promptly snatched the pack out of Josef's hands.  Watching spellbook, gem, and scrimped coppers quickly escape, Jo thought, "Oh, no you don't." With skirts flying (trousers were still wet), he gave chase.

This is usually the part where all worldly goods are lost and the hero of the story laid low, but Jo's magically transformed body was surprisingly fleet and actually caught up with the young thief, bringing him low with a flying tackle.  "Lemme up!" the urchin yelled.

"Won't," Jo replied. "You stole my stuff. Say uncle."

"Won't say uncle to no girl!"

"I ain't a girl, this is a magical disguise."  This, with some pride.

"Yeah?"  All struggling ceased as the young thief appraised the disguise. "Good 'un.  All right, you got me. Take yer stuff, I ain't crossing no wizard."

"Sorcerer. But I want to learn thieving."

Thus began Jo's second apprenticeship.  Charlie was part of a gang of child thieves, and at first Jo was pressured to join the prostitute's wing of the organization.  But the leader, barely out of childhood himself, was impressed enough with the story of the runaway apprentice that he allowed Jo to take the initiation challenge.  Well, buy into the gang, really, with the stolen gem.

In all ways, an objective third party would classify it as much harder than the first one.  Meals were more scarce, work more physically demanding.  But there is no denying, it was shorter.  Two years, and done.

Now if that spell would just wear off.

Vampire: The Masquerade character bio

From 2015, never played.

Sean McWilliams was a morning DJ working at a medium-ranked St. Louis radio station in the Crestwood suburb.  He had no particular ambition, nor any particular creative originality.  His program consisted of the usual silly songs, prank calls, and trading banter/insults with callers.  He posessed one singular talent: his voice.  It could get him hired at any station that still used live DJs, and he may have spent his entire life skipping from one such job to the next, across the country.

One summer morning, a minor battle over territory erupted between the clans controlling Overland and University City, witnessed by an incredulous human who escaped unseen.  Rather than keep it to himself, this  individual called into the morning show at KSHE to share the story with someone, anyone.  Sean was not feeling charitable that day, and spent the rest of his shift ridiculing the caller.  The rest of the week, he reported sightings of Bigfoot, UFOs, werewolves, and the Mississippi River Monster (a distant relative of Nessie).   

On the first morning, the unfortunate man's head carried a hefty bounty.  Before the end of the week, the bounty was cancelled.  There was simply no need - Sean's campaign of ridicule had eliminated any threat of exposure.  

The DJ, however, had earned a different kind of bounty.  He was brought into the Ventrue clan, and given a new sort of job - keeping the Masquerade as he has shown he can do.  Fortunately, the gifts he received dovetailed nicely into the mission.  The hours are a little different now.  

After a few years two things have become apparent:  First, radio is declining, so McWilliams has had to expand his technical knowledge into the online world.  Second, he has been a public figure in one place for too long.  The Prince required him to make one Childe (in the hopes of passing on his unique combination of gifts), and train that person in his craft.  Now he has moved along to Omaha to ply his trade.  To carry on his mission here, he must make his presence known to Omaha's Prince and Clan leaders.

But Sean - now known locally as Reve Coeur (a tribute to his previous home in the suburb Creve Coeur), has other missions too.  He is experimenting with casting his vocal powers over radio, podcasts, and vlogs.  He is also working to rebuild his influence among high-powered human predators, as theirs is the only blood which nourishes him.  

Once he has resided in Omaha for no more than 20 years, he plans to move on again.

Details:

This character is very loosely based upon LaCroix, a supporting character from the Forever Knight series.

A DJ who is experimenting with manipulation of mortals with electronic media - radio, podcasts, vlogs.  He wants to foment unrest and violence among mortals to make it easier to cover up vampiric activities.

He prefers to hunt predators.  Not because of any feelings for innocence, but because he feels it makes the hunt more exciting.  The moment of terror when the predator becomes the prey is almost as delicious as the blood itself.  

His casual method of hunting is to take long walks, wearing expensive clothing, and appearing slightly inebriated.  The predators he attracts this way, he rarely leaves breathing, because he considers them clumsy, boring, and motivated more from desperation than true cold-bloodedness.  They rarely have any usable influence.

His more intricate method (or plan?) involves stalking politicians, mobsters, and powerful businessmen, learning of their pecadillos and setting up "stings" - situations in which he can eventually gain some leverage.  When he drinks from these, he would rather keep them alive and under his influence.  These are true sociopaths and he believes he can use them to his advantage, whether broken or not.

He has never given anyone the Embrace and at this time has no desire to make a childe.

10 rarity points

Ventrue  currently 2 RP

Chosen blood type: predators (sociopaths?)

Presence

Dominate

Fortitude

Nature Competitor

Demeanor  Cavalier

Backstory: Josefina

 Character created for an online game, 4/16/2016

-=-=-=-

Raised by his mother, Josef was a rather spoiled child.  He never wanted for anything, including pocket money, provided he attended daily lessons.  When younger, that was spent on sweets, so that he never really lost his baby fat.  As his mind expanded and he learned to read, his daily diet of empty calories began to include penny dreadfuls - adventure stories with no real literary value, chock-full of villains up to no good, heroes being all noble, damsels being distressed, and, of course, unrealistic portrayals of derring-do.  How Jo avoided tooth decay we may never know, but he developed a very bad case of mental cavities:  hero worship.  His favorite type was the Noble Thief - he strikes from the shadows, to bring low those who abuse their wealth and power!  Usually in the motif of some forest animal, like the Black Fox, or the Wolverine.  Or the Honey Badger.

Most families apprentice their sons out when they grow big enough to do some real work - generally, about seven years old or so.  Sorcerers, being distrusting of strangers, like to keep it in the family, and therefore prefer to apprentice their own children.  At least, that's how it was with Josef's father Gamelon.  When Gamelon decided it was time to train up an apprentice, Josef was already twelve, well into a rebellious streak, unfocused, and much more interested in rescuing damsels than in scrubbing cauldrons.  He was, however, bright, learned quickly, and forgot nothing.  These traits worked against everyone involved.

After one year of drudgery, the boy had formulated his plan of escape. He would cast a disguise spell, take a modest amount of funds and a single book (not enough to warrant a real search; surely he'd never be missed by such a cruel father), and travel to the Big City, there to Make his Fortune and Become a Hero (tm). 

After two years, he had a vague idea of how hard that was going to be.  His father kept everything locked up, and not one of the stories he loved contained any actual instructions on how to pick a lock.  The Plan was on the back burner.

In the third year, he was learning actual magic - of the create a small light variety, decipher this scroll, learn how to mix that potion, now clean everything up and put it away.  But he was learning where things were kept, and the routine that the Master kept.  The Plan was fading.

In the fourth year, even Jo had to admit that the magic was becoming more interesting.  How to master an enemy's will.  How to damage an enemy's body.  How to find that which is hidden.  Perhaps the Black Fox could be a sorcerer.  The Plan was nearly forgotten.

Until one day, mind not on his work, Jo mixed sulfur when he should have mixed phosphor and received a sound beating for the mistake (not to mention burning lungs and a nasty cleanup job).

Within the week, he grabbed the first spellbook he found unlocked, a single gem, and scarpered.  A few miles away, he stopped to examine his loot.  Only one spell contained within the tome looked anything like a spell of transformation, so he cast it directly from the page.  Josef promptly blacked out.  When he awoke, the page was blank.

Jo rushed to a nearby pond to inpect his handiwork.  Did he changed to a dwarf?  A grizzled soldier?  A DRAGON?  

The reflection that gazed back had dark, curly hair, emerald-green eyes, a slightly rounded face, and a pouty expression.  It looked like Jo.  Vastly disappointed, he heaved a great sigh, and trudged to a tree to relieve himself. One soaked pair of trousers later, Jo learned the extent of the spell's effect.

After congratulating himself upon the perfect disguise (Gamelon would never be searching for a runaway daughter), Jo began to wonder why his sorcerous father had such a spell in his collection.  It wasn't long before such speculation was put away, never to be examined again.

Back on the path, Josef flagged down a cart, a farmer and family taking some produce to the city for sale, and continued the journey in the back with the wife and children.  Conversation was awkward, and went somewhat along these lines:

Mother: "Where are you going, dear?"

Jo (in falsetto): "To the city, to seek my fortune."

Child 1: "What's wrong with your voice?"

Jo (coughing): "uh, Nothing."

Child 2: "You smell like wee."

Jo: "I, uh, had an accident..."

Mother: "Oh, it's all right, here, you can borrow a skirt and wash your trousers in the stream at our next stop."

By midday the cart had reached the gates.  With one foot on the streets, a blur of motion, and someone small & quick promptly snatched the pack out of Josef's hands.  Watching spellbook, gem, and scrimped coppers quickly escape, Jo thought, "Oh, no you don't." With skirts flying (trousers were still wet), he gave chase.

This is usually the part where all worldly goods are lost and the hero of the story laid low, but Jo's magically transformed body was surprisingly fleet and actually caught up with the young thief, bringing him low with a flying tackle.  "Lemme up!" the urchin yelled.

"Won't," Jo replied. "You stole my stuff. Say uncle."

"Won't say uncle to no girl!"

"I ain't a girl, this is a magical disguise."  This, with some pride.

"Yeah?"  All struggling ceased as the young thief appraised the disguise. "Good 'un.  All right, you got me. Take yer stuff, I ain't crossing no wizard."

"Sorcerer. But I want to learn thieving."

Thus began Jo's second apprenticeship.  Charlie was part of a gang of child thieves, and the leader, barely out of childhood himself, was impressed enough with the story of the runaway apprentice that he allowed Jo to take the initiation challenge.  Well, buy into the gang, really, with the stolen gem.

In all ways, an objective third party would classify it as much harder than the first one.  Meals were more scarce, work more physically demanding.  Fueled by imagination (and the last of the baby fat), however, it seemed much easier to Josef, the work inconsequential compared to the skills learned.  Pick a pocket?  Nothing to it.  Climb a wall?  Show me that wall!  Open a lock?  You got it!  Disarm a trap?  What trap? 

Two years, and the Jackal was ready to swash a buckle.  Adventure awaits!

Now if only that damn spell would just wear off.

(notes)

Josef/Josefine is a magic user/thief, much more confident in the physical skills than the magical.  Jo is transgender, physically female/mentally male, magically transformed by a spell while a teenager.  The spell is no longer available for study, so the duration is unknown and possibly permanent.  I've left enough room so that the race of the character is flexible, as are the specific skills and spells known.  Weapon of choice would be something flamboyant, possibly a rapier, or saber, or flintlock pistol, (and of course a dagger main-gauche) all depending upon availability and funds. 

Desirea - Malted Memories

 Game date:  3/25/2012

There were exactly three places on Algoron that Desirea could order a drink without being asked to repeat herself.  The pirate's cove brought too many unpleasant memories to mind, and she hated being surrounded by dwarves.  That left Nordmaar.  The whiskey was sometimes palatable, but more often tasted like lamp oil filtered through a syphilitic sailor's spleen.  Either way, it was potent.  More importantly, it was far away from any politics she cared about.  So she bought another cup of the bitter highland malt.

Her thoughts kept returning to the day the Inquisitor was attacked.

-=+=-

A scream echoed through the streets of Abaddon, barely recognizable as human. It carried volumes of outage and anger, perhaps a little shock, but no trace of pain or fear.

"Do you think I have no experience with such tricks?" The shouted words were surprisingly clear.  "I'll take this vision and make it a reality on you!"

Scant moments later, Epistatia staggered into the church, her face ashen and her body shaking.

It had been a vision sent. An invasion of the Inquisitor's mind, and it wasn't supposed to be done. There were laws that forbade any sort of attack from one citizen upon another. Unfortunately, some didn't think the laws applied to them.

Desi watched Epistatia shudder as wave after wave of the vision hit.  The same thing, over and over, she said - her mouth sewn shut by an unidentified man.  Twenty times or more.  None of them could help - not Neziji, not Desirea, not even Epistatia herself - and the one who set the nightmare upon her wasn't likely to assuage it.  But as time passed, the afflicted woman pulled herself together, muttering threats through gritted teeth.

The Wizardess pulled a wooden stake from one of her many purses and pouches.  "May foinest one yet," she told the Inquisitor.  "Boosted eleven toimes."  She handed it over.  "Ay 'opes, iffen that ever 'appens ta may, ay kin bay 'arf so brave abaout it."

-=+=-

Desi pulled a long drink from the cup.  The next part, she knew, would not be so much remembered as...relived.  The thought both terrified and comforted her.

-=+=-

The room was suddenly freezing.  At least the elf thought it was.  Considering recent events, and her oh-so-foolishly words just now spoken, she thought she'd better check.

"Nezi? Is it colder in 'ere, ayr izzit just may?" she whispered.  Both the other women verified that the temperature had indeed dropped, and continued to do so.  All pulled their clothing tighter in a vain attempt to hold their bodies' heat in place.

A dark fog entered the chamber.  "Ay fink...summat's 'appenin'," she said.  So this was it, she thought. So soon after its attack on Epistatia, the rogue vampire was coming for her.  I hope I can handle it.  Let my mind not break.  Let it not know of my time on that damned ship...

The shadowy mist seemed to grow eyes - two bright, tiny spots of light, and moved straight toward the Wizardess.  Just as it reached her, it vanished, although from the cold Desirea felt, she'd swear that it went right through her.  Desirea's companions stared at her.  No, not at her...at some point above and behind her.

Neziji asked, "Desi?  Alright?" but the words were lost among a thousand other voices, entering the elf's mind directly, without so much as a by-your-leave to her ears.  "Servant," they said in unison.  Thousands of throats commanded by a single will. "You. Use. Mistress' gifts. SHE grants. You. Strength."

Desirea knew that Nezi had spoken, but the knowledge was abstract, somehow not real when compared to the universe that seemed to be pushing the boundaries of her mind to the breaking point.  Helplessly, she shook her head, trying to focus on her friend's face, and the voices continued.  Some screamed.  Some whispered.  Some howled.  Some hissed.  The words formed from different parts of the universe, as if she were drowning and the sea itself were speaking to her.  "Mistress. Is. Pleased. With her... Servants."

This couldn't be a vampire's nightmare sending.  Everyone who had endured that attack said that it was always the same vision, repeating.  This was...something else.  Something that Desirea felt she had to answer.  Her voice a trembling whisper, she said to the void, "The gifties ayr moin in this loif. Ay'm 'ers in th' afters."

Even as she said it, she knew that she was a beat behind. The voices filling her mind had moved away from that point, but she couldn't help herself.  It was the ancient pact.  The servant of Drakkara is granted power, to do with as she will.  And when life fled, the power is returned - along with the servant herself, and whatever she had built from the gift.  Desirea's teacher had drilled it into her.  Use the power. Return it with interest. It became a mantra, to be repeated in times of doubt.  Let no one question your right do do what you will.  To take what you will.  And at this moment, Desirea was filled with such doubt as she'd never felt before.

But the legion of voices didn't seem to be questioning her at all.  A word at a time, they continued to speak.  "yesss. In. Time. You will become. One. With. Us. THE Dark Servant."

Still, she had to complete the mantra, if only to reassure herself.  "Thass the dayl. Nobody tykes me from 'er." 

The current and former Inquisitor continued to hover, concerned, but they might as well have been ghosts for all that Desirea noticed.  "She's...  I think she's alright, for now," Neziji was saying.  Her voice, which Desirea normally found so warm, rich, and full of undertones, now seemed flat in comparison with the host.

"Now. You. Will. Exhalt. Her. She deserves. Praise. In Abbadon"

There it was. A command. A holy quest.  Some people hoped, prayed for exactly this opportunity their entire lives and never got one.  Desi had never considered herself destined for anything - never sought such favor.  Hells, even when she swore, she was as likely to profane one god's name as another.  Yet, here she was, with a holy quest, and it was...impossible.  Exhalt Drakkara in Fatale's own kingdom?  She might as well waltz into the Vallenwood and claim the Crown of Stars.  Desi's fingertips began to ache from the cold.  She put her hands under her arms.

The noiseless cacophany continuted.  "Many Gifts... she Bestows. To. Her. Childs. Servants."

Still a step behind, the woman asked - nay, pled, "'ow can ay do tha? Th'ovver owns this plyce. 'is faythful run it."

The Wizardess began to feel warmer...much warmer, despite the freeze in the air. No, this heat originated from within.  Deep within her being, that special place outside space and time from whence flowed the source of her magic - that was burning with the fire of the sun.  Of a thousand suns.  Desirea burned inside her own skin.  As she loosened her clothing, a million miles away two finite, flat voices conferred.

"What is she saying?" someone said through chattering teeth.

"You really don't understand her?" a familiar voice replied.

"I'll be honest," said the other.  "I've only ever understood about a tenth of what she says... I tend to piece it together based on others reactions."

The air suddenly thickened...or was it maybe the darkness?  All the thousands of voices united ... the power of the thousand suns united... into a single command: "SILENCE!"  The force of the word drove Desirea to her knees.  Stunned, she dropped her bright pink jacket.  The flat voices fell away.

"Continue. Serve. This. Place," the Legion continued, once again in the halting, wavelike pattern.  "Make. Tribute. To. Our. Mistress. Make others KNOW. Where... Your. Gifts... Originate."

Desirea wanted to heartily agree, but all she could do was laugh with hysterical relief as the dark mists receded, taking with it the shouting, whispering, howling Legion.

-=+=-

As the experience faded once again to memory, Desi wiped her brow and shivered, then drained her cup.

The first thing she'd done was take a last name.  She'd only ever had the one name, and no memory of a family before the ship.  But now she knew exactly who she was.  Desirea Legion. 

Then she signed that name to a public proclamation of Drakkara's approval. Of Desirea, of Abaddon, of all that had been accomplished by the people of this kingdom.

Baby steps, really.  But a start.

And now?

Now that might be as far as it went.  Because, holy quest or not, Desi could not bring herself to blindly follow just any fool who thought he could lead a rebellion.  The priests were going to set back nearly everything that had been accomplished, by both Vaedryn and Sereb.  And she was getting the strong impression that, if they ran things, she would not be welcome here once Fatale's tenets became the law of the land.

She blinked back a tear and ordered another cup of whiskey.  She didn't really feel ready to die, but if that was the penance for failing her goddess, then that was just how it would have to be.

Desirea - Mulled Memories

Game date: 2/7/2012

 Another fruitless day searching the swamp. Aside from a stray squad of retreating elves, they'd found no soldiers to harass. As for siege equipment, the marsh greedily guarded its stolen treasures so far.

Desirea eased into the hot bath, grateful for this perk of office. She carefully applied a flame spell to the metal mug in her hand. Both the tub and the mug bore permanent scorch marks, but she could live with that.  As the water worked its magic on sore muscles, the heated liquor eased her sore throat and helped random memories surface.

The first day she'd had this particular drink...

-=+=-

"Eidolon, would you please explain these...unusual requisitions?" the Count asked.

"Wa-" the elven woman croaked, then coughed - a dry, hacking noise. She continued, whispering. "Wot 'uns d'ya call hunYOOsual?"

"Let's start with the armor," Vaedryn said, silently noting the atypical lack of volume in her voice. "Don't mounted knights generally have armor already issued?"

She nodded. "Hit's too 'eavy. 'adda cobber fa' doon an' 'e coulden' gettup. But ay canna hask 'em t'foight wi na proTECKshun, cannoi?"

Sereb's son nodded, and rose from his chair.  "You do know that what you're asking for is rather expensive, yes?"  He crossed to a row of shelves and began pulling various boxes and jars from them.

"Ay," she rasped, "but look 'ere. Ay'll henchant them mayself, and ay'll e'en bayjem tha stuff aoutta may own pocket." Another dry cough.

The Count took his ingredients to a small tabletop cauldron and lit a fire under it. "I can't promise you silksteel, but I will get the best I can manage. Five sets, yes?"  He began to mix substances in the cooking pot, glancing up to see Desirea nod.

"Moving on... Potions of detection I understand, as with healing. But why water breathing, pray tell?"

She cleared her throat. "We nayd ta bay able ta blend inta th' swamp. Wa'er brayvin' let's us 'oide unner th' sayrface."

Vaedryn nodded again, and poured a portion of the mixture into a handled cup. "All right, but why so many of them?"  He handed the cup to the Eidolon.

"Tykes twoice as much fer 'orses."  She accepted the brew and sniffed, then eagerly took a large mouthful.  The hot liquid felt like golden magic to her throat. "Cor, tha's good," she exclaimed - not at her usual volume, but definitely no longer a raspy whisper. "Wot kinna witch's brew izzit?"

"Hmm," the Count pondered. "Well, it is a prized secret, but I suppose I can tell you. This potion contains cinnamon, cloves, allspice berries, oranges, and fermented apple juice. With a bit of honey. Witches call it 'mulled cider'."

He sat down at his desk once more, steepled his fingers, and said,"Suppose you outline your strategies for me."

Desi was just glad that he hadn't asked how she lost her voice.

-=+=-

The squad's first training session in the actual swamp was drawing to a close. "Thass enuff," the Commander called out to the five men under her command. "May bum's saddle sores 'av got bums wif saddle sores."  She stood in the stirrups to relieve some of the pressure, and that was when the leg cramp hit.

Desirea yelped as the cramped leg buckled, pitching her head-first into knee-deep brackish water. Under the surface she stayed for a few seconds, feeling humiliated over her poor performance.  Then she started hearing muffled voices and splashing. 

They can't find me, she thought. They're trying to find me and they can't.  After a moment's consideration, she cast a water breathing spell upon herself. Let's see what they do.

She began to count her own heartbeats.  Fifty passed...then a hundred...two hundred.  The voices grew fainter and louder, the splashing more frantic.  The water smelled and tasted terrible, and she had nearly decided to surface on her own when a rough hand grabbed her tunic collar and yanked upward, pulling the garment half off her body while lifting her completely out of the water.

"I found her!" Rodoald shouted, and shook his commander like a wet rag.  "Are you all right?"

Desi spit rancid water in his face and laughed.  "Ay'm foin, ya git! Put may daown." Which he did, post-haste, and backed away a step.

"Y'should say a'yer fyces!" the Eidolon exclaimed. "Way're sao gonner use that STRAtegay when-"  She stopped talking. Five faces were staring at her in what looked like shock.

"Wossmattayr, ay tol'ya ay'm arrayt..." One of the men - Barton - pointed at her chest.  She looked down to see that her tunic was ripped, exposing most of her torso.

"Aow, vat's rayl maCHOOR o'ya-"

"Leech," Barton said.  She looked downward again.

A huge, flat, black worm - easily the biggest leech Desirea had ever seen - was attached to her breast like an infant. She saw its body ripple as it swallowed.

The first scream was reactionary, borne of shock and, let's be honest, fright. It was possibly the girliest sound to escape her lips in decades. The shriek echoed off the waters of the swamp and, distorted by the various trees, carried for miles.

When she had finally spent all the air in her lungs, the dark elf drew in a deep breath and swore in rage. She dusted off words and phrases which had rarely seen the light of day, learned in the brig of a pirate's ship, most in languages she didn't even understand.  Some words she made up on the spot.  All were equally incomprehensible, though obviously the intent was to consign the abominable thing to the foulest depths of Hell.  With a final curse, she grasped the slimy creature and yanked it away from her flesh.

The third scream was pure pain.

A couple of knights moved to help, but she batted them away, arms flailing, until her vision started to fade. She stood shakily for a few seconds, bent at the waist and hands on her knees, raggedly gasping.

"Less...gao...'ome," she whispered, voice spent.

It was not her finest hour.

-=+=-

"Sa ennyways, thass it. Wotchar thank?"

Vaedryn's chin was cupped in one hand, hiding his expression, but his eyes were crinkled at the corners.  When he put his arms on the desktop, his face was unreadable.  "That is certainly an...unusual...use for mounted cavalry," he stated.

"Yeh, well, ay'm doin' the best ay can wif wot ay knaow," the Eidolon replied. 'Wazzit hup ta may, ay'd a picked a baird, a clayric, anna couple hasSASsins.  Cor, iffen ay coulda 'ad yer woif an' Neziji, way'd givvem a'wot-for."

"Perhaps you would, at that, but they're leading troops as well," the Count replied.

He smiled. "Make use of whatever you can from the Room of Alms, and I'll fill the rest. I'm quite eager to see what comes of your plans."  The woman nodded.

"Don't let me detain you," said the Count, signalling the end of the meeting.

-=+=-

The water in the tub was getting cold. Time to either heat it or get out.  Desi checked her fingertips.  Well-pruned.  She sniffed them.  It might have been her imagination, but she could still smell the brackish water of the swamp.  Another hour, then.  She flamed the side of the tub.

Tomorrow would be another long, weary day.

Desirea - Rum memories

Game date: 2/1/2012

Desirea sat in the tavern, once again wondering why no one had ever designed such a place with every seat in a dark corner. She watched the unit of knights under her command steadily growing more boisterous as the evening wore on.

Earlier today, the knights had not been fully focused, that much was clear.  The news of the Althainia/Shalonesti forces' retreat from the swamps had them all in high spirits.

"Come on, Commander! The invaders are leaving. Can't we relax for one day and celebrate?"

She pondered the request. It was always a fine line, maintaining discipline among such men. "Arrayt, gaon an' 'ave some fun."

At one time, the Eidolon had turned to drink for the classic reason, to forget. What she'd found was that it did the exact opposite, bringing up memories.  Just as it was doing tonight.

Desirea sipped her rum, remembering the day she first took command of her unit...

-=+=-

The new Commander looked at her mounted warriors, each sitting ramrod-straight in brightly polished armor, all in a neat row - ready for inspection.  She sighed, silently praying, What the hell am I doing here, Drakkara? She'd asked this question many times before, but it was purely rhetorical.

She knew nothing of military protocol. Her only battle experience had been gleaned from watching pirates raiding merchant ships, safely from belowdecks - the only times she had been safe on that accursed ship.  I'll just have to use what I do know, she thought, and drew a deep breath.

"Arrayt, ya grayt clankin' gits!" the slight elven woman yelled with gusto.  "Wot the bloody 'ell y'fink yer doin', loinin' up loik that? Myking pritty TARgets fer hARchers? Brayk up tha' loin!"

The knights, most of them burly men twice her size, murmered amongst themselves, making no attempt to follow the order. She watched them, waiting to hear a certain phrase. They did not disappoint.  There was always one.

"What did she say?" one of the men asked his fellows, who responded with a burst of laughter. "What language was that?"

The whip Desi kept coiled around her waist snaked out, curling around the comedian's neck. She quickly wrapped it around her own saddle's horn and guided her horse backward with her knees, silently giving thanks for the hours of training she'd endured to learn the maneuver.  The knight fell heavily from his saddle and lay bruised on the ground, momentarily helpless under the weight of his own armor.

"Ay SAID," Desirea hissed, "Brayk up yer loin."

This time, the men quickly moved to obey.

"See, the PROBlem wif Fataloites in GEN'rul," the Eidolon lectured as she rode past each member of her unit, "izzat thay're a'too ready t'dye fer thayr god."  She stopped and flicked her whip at a knight who was attempting to help up his fallen comrade. The tip landed on his helmet, not harming him in the least but ringing out like a bell in a tower. "Layve 'im," she ordered, and wheeled her mount about, facing them. "That en't 'ow ya win a war."  She paused, then shouted, "'ow d'ya win a war, ya silly buggers?"

As one, they replied with the age-old aphorism, "By making the other bastards die for their gods!"

The elf nodded and went on, once again riding among the men. "An' the PROBlem wif knoights speCIFFikly, izzat they a' want the glory kill.  Go one-on-one wif the biggest, baddest bugger onna fayld."

"That en't 'ow ya winna war, eivver.  hesPESHly iffen yer houtNUMbered.  So, t'dye we're gonner work on lairnin' t'cut a swath an' disapPEAR.  Stroik, vanish. Stroik again. Gottit?"

An awkward couple of seconds later, the knights replied, "Yes Ma'am!"

She turned her attention to the lone armored figure, still struggling on the ground. "Wotcher nyme, sojer?" she asked him, a kind tone in her voice.

"B- Barton, ma'am," he wheezed.

"'ow long ya bin onna ground, Barton?" the elf queried sweetly.

"I don't know...couple of minutes."

Desirea leaped from the saddle, landing lightly next to the prone man, and whispered in his ear.  "Four minnits. Yer a dead man, Barton."  She stood and addressed the rest of her unit.  "Barton 'ere's dead. Ennybody tell may why?"

The seconds ticked by. One knight finally spoke up. "Because he's been underwater all this time."

"Cor!" exclaimed the woman. "They tol' may tha' knoights wazza craym o'tha crop. Glad t'say summa you kin fink."  She remounted.  "Yer gonner bay foightin' inna MARSH! A bleedin' SWAMP! From 'ere on aout, don' wayr nuffin y'canna e'en SIT UP IN! GOTTIT?"

This time the reply was near-instantaneous. "YES MA'AM!"

That's what I need, she thought. They're ready to train under me. Now let's see if I can make them willing to follow me into battle.

"Ay bin told," she said, "that aych o'you knoights is worf twenny graound-paounders.  Izzat roight?"

Among the staggered chorus of "Yes, Ma'am!" came a few interjected, "Thirty!"

"Then lemme tell ya this," Desi replied. "Afore we're done, yer a' gonner bay worf a HUNNERT. Enny man 'ere wot dies afore 'e's kilt an 'unnerd o'the hENemay, that man izza deZERTer. Ya gets no burial, no 'onner, yer fam'ly gets no penshun, an ay'l PERS'nally hANimyte yer BLEEDin CORPSE 'til ya fill yer quota! GOTTIT?"

The response was practically a cheer.  "GOT IT!"

"Arrayt naow! Ditch yer hARmour an' remaount.  An' summun 'elp Barton up afore ay slit 'is froat on PRINCiples."

-=+=-

Desirea smiled into her mug. Yes, they'd follow her in battle. Most of them would follow her to the gates of hell, now.  Some of them might even live through this war.

I might even live through it.

She made a mental note to reschedule the next day's exercises for two hours before sunrise. They'd get no warning, because the enemy would not warn them either.  We are not out of the muck yet, she thought. Hope we can all hold our breath long enough.

Fake Hitman

written 11/12/2016

 Writing prompt:

One specific hit-man is well-known for always killing his targets within a week. The only problem is that he doesn’t really do anything. His targets always died of natural causes or accidents. What started out as a scam for easy money, turned him into a world famous killer.

Goddess of Winter

 writing-prompt-s

You're a minor goddess who saved a mortal on the brink of death. A few months later, he came back with an army to pledge allegiance to you.

=====

Their lives are so brief; you could blink and miss one entirely.  Even the eldest are mayflies. 

So, when I noticed, near the end of my Season, one about to expire, one with such a bright life-force, it seemed a shame.  It was such an easy thing to reach out, bring him back, if only for another half-blink of time.  

“Go,” I told him.  “Time is short.  Spend it wisely.”

He left, and I forgot about him, and I slumbered until my Season began anew.

When I awoke, he was back at the same spot.  He had built a pretty little shrine.  And he was not alone this time – a legion of his kind stood ready, wearing thick hides and strong metal, bearing weapons.  I admit to curiosity.  I made manifest, and greeted him.

“My Goddess,” he proclaimed, descending to one knee.  “You spared my life.  I have raised an army in your name.”

“So I see,” I answered.  “You’ve been busy.  And what will you do with your army?”

He lifted his head, but averted his eyes.  “We will go forth across the lands, spreading your Word.”

“And the armor, and the weapons?”

“To smite the unbelievers in your name.”

Yes, of course they would be, but I needed to hear him say it.  Some of my siblings have no such compunction, but I try to be patient.

“Walk with me,” I said.

The fallen leaves, brittle with frost, crunched beneath our feet – his in heavy boots, mine bare.  I led him a little ways from his army, out of earshot, before posing my next question.

“Do you know why I chose the Winter as my domain?”

He seemed bewildered.  “I...I thought that you were born to it...that you created the winter, the cold, to bring an end to…”

“Oh, no,.  The Winter was here long before my birth.”  He still looked confused, so I continued.  “Without one of my family as guardian, the Winter was indeed as you thought.  Harsh, cold, unfeeling...killing.  One of my older sisters brought the Spring, Season of Renewal, long before my time of choice.”

I paused, gazing upon his face.  “We thrive on Life, do you see?”

He didn’t answer.

“My choice of domain, the Winter, surprised my family.  The Season most barren of life?  I was told that I would never thrive, that I would shrivel and come to resemble the cruelty of the cold.  But I was determined that I would, rather, give the Winter a kinder face.”

I stopped walking then.  We had come to an edge, a sheer face of the mountain.  Below us, a valley still clung to a bit of green.

“Look there,” I told him.  “Clinging to life in the face of death.  That’s how I found you.  Such strength, such sheer tenacity.  Struggling, against all hope, to survive.”

Finally, the message reached him.  I saw his face relax, his narrowed eyes open – just a bit.  I extended my hands to him.

“My friend, I have no interest in smiting the unbelievers – their deaths would not strengthen me.  Nor would I ask my most fervent followers to die in my name.  If you wouild spread my Word, then first you must know it.”

I waited.  Waited until he took my hand.  Waited until, finally, he met my eyes, and uttered in a hoarse whisper, “Then what is your Word, my Lady?”

I smiled.  “But I already told you.  My Word is Hope.”

The next few moments were of utmost importance.  His face contorted as one emotion chased another across his features.  Denial, as the thought of months spent in folly arose.  Disappointment, possibly in me for not immediately blessing his mission of conquest.  I watched carefully as shame caused his eyes to drop.  He took a deep breath...and released it.  His next emotion would either be rage, or...

“I will disband my army,” he said..  I’m...sorry to have misunderstood.”  There it was.  Acceptance, and resolve.  

“Oh, don’t do that,” I said.  “An army without a leader is more dangerous than an unbridled Winter – they would follow anyone who gave them a purpose.” Patting his hand, I said, “Rather, give them a better purpose.”

As he pondered this, I whispered, “Your lives are so brief.  Time is short.  Spend it wisely.”

A few moments later, he nodded.  I released his hands, thankful that I had not saved his life only to lose it to a pointless sacrifice.  He turned to go.

As I dissolved my manifest form, I called out, “Oh, and get them some warmer clothing.  Some of them are getting frostbite.”

Vernados' Journal - Bad Week

(game date: 8/7/2021 - 8/14/2021)

 Bad day today.  Last of five hives failed.  Lost my temper, smashed them all.  Haven't lost my temper in a long time.

Repaired one of the hives.  Might be able to fix three more.  Not all of them.  Now I need to find a swarm, or buy one.  Tomorrow I will see the village elder.  Maybe she will know where I should go.

Ascension (Æstas season finale)

(game date: 9/23/2021)

Technically, we rested.  I can't speak for anyone else, but my sleep was fitful.  Were it not for chemical aid, I doubt I'd have slept at all.  Anticipation, you know.

I'd purchased enough military-grade explosive to load up all six Kourier drones, and a new pair of grav boots, both for myself and for Ŝtelita.  If all went as planned, I expected Parker to have control of that drone by the time the battle started, and most of the fight would be aerial.

I'd also conferred with the group about our pre-battle prep.  EllieRocks seemed confident that she could work protection from radiant energy into a pre-battle concert, which she would perform prior to our departure from the city.  Working together, Vamir and I managed to place a regenerative healing upon the entire platoon of volunteers that showed up.  There were well over a hundred (Is that a platoon?  Squadron?  Company?  I wasn't lying when I said I'm not a military man) led by General Lord himself.  Hilda and Cecily also rode along -- they held a grudge against the golden mech for the loss of their ship.

And that was about all I could think of to make this as safe as a war could get.  We headed out under cover of magic and tek invisibility.  I had to admire their coordination and discipline.  No one got lost, no one broke radio silence.  

Eye of the Storm

(game date: 9/9/2021)

There was precious little that could be salvaged from the Crystal Pilot, considering the space and weight available on our return trip.  The storm seemed to part just enough to allow us to leave, giving the impression that, on some level, the ancient sorcerer holding the palace in stasis still retained some awareness of his surroundings.  

Conversation was sparse, with each of us wrapped up in our own reactions to what we'd just seen.  I did
ask Ms. Blackrose what prompted their serendipitous exploration in this particular direction, and it turned out to be exactly that: luck.  One of the water features in our "game map" had a real-life counterpart in the south.  Cecily was simply helping out with the search, while simultaneously satisfying her own curiosity about one of the ancient cities.  The one spitting out the golden drones, as it turns out.

She did, however, also offer up a useful bit of information.  The energy weapon used by the golden mech drones not only threatened to torch her ship, they also made the interior uncomfortably warm.  That sounded like radiant energy to me -- the SunBaby Special Attack.  It was something to ponder.  No armor enhancement available protects against radiant energy.

Storming The Castle

 (game date: 9/2/2021)

Gordi slipped into the half-open door of the Crystal Palace, and quickly exited.  "More zombies," she reported.  "A lot more."

No one could say that they were terribly surprised by this news.  Nor were we terribly concerned.  We'd come loaded for sun-babies, and the undead horde that we'd faced did not exactly present a "Rising Day" challenge.  Even so, we felt it safest if the youngest held back for a bit.  Since Cecily and Hilda were already low on ammunition, they volunteered to keep the kidlets busy with salvaging what they could from the shipwreck while the rest of us delved into this structure.

Speaking from personal experience, I would bet on those two, even unarmed, against practically any opponent, and the rugrats weren't exactly helpless themselves.  However, if it should come to pass that we needed to beat a hasty retreat, it would be nice if we didn't have to pause to pack first, so this wasn't wasted effort.  I left two of the Kourier drones with them, in case we strayed out of BANlink range.

Tempest

(game date:  8/19/2021)

We circled the storm.  Only a flat expanse lay on the other side, unbroken by debris.  It was starting to look like the Crystal Pilot did not escape that maelstrom.  Katrya switched on Frank's scanners.

Behind the whirling wall of wind and rain, there was...something.  Something big, and stationary -- much too large to be Cecily's ship.  But down, towards the ground, the scan revealed two heat signatures.  Now we just had to find a way in.  

The storm didn't quite touch the ground, so it seemed logical that we might be able to just roll under it.  But when we dropped down low enough to do that, we couldn't find a way into the funnel of the storm, plus we lost the blips -- they were obscured by the base of that huge object inside.  

We would have to go in from the side, or over the top.  The tac-van began to climb...

Riders On The Storm

(game date:  8/12/2021)

Hilda appeared, looking into the camera, shouting. "-not safe! Again, do not go to the Cities." She glanced back to Cecie, standing at the helm. "I don't think this will work, Cecie, we're too far away!"

The view shook, and a loud boom sounded!  Cecie, busy with piloting, called back, "Hold onto something! I'm going to try and lose them in the storm!"

In The Hall of the Mountain King

(game date: 8/4/2021)

The gnomish leader of the band directed everyone around the side of a rocky outcropping, wherea rough-hewn entrance into the mountainside lay , hidden behind some cleverly placed foliage . Some of the taller group members had to stoop to get in, but once inside the hallway proved large enough to accommodate everyone.  .

The floor of the entryway gives way to a drop-off further in, with steps carved that lead down into an oddly-shaped cavern. One side was slanted at an angle, smoothly hewn, while the stairs descended to a less-skillfully carved floor.  Peeking through these rough carvings were large, arched patterns that seemed to extend from the slanted, smooth wall.  A large set of double doors lay at the end of that hallway, but they oriented with the wall as though it was a floor.  The effect continued beyond that door, as the gnome led them deeper into the mountain.

"Huh," said Katrya.  "Is all sideways."

Big Job

(Game date: 7/29/2021)

Oi you lot!

Ya member that jobber inna Cagelist ay went after?  Well, ay gottit, an' yer nivver gonna belayve this shite!

First off, the addy was that posh luxe-haus where alla anthros went onna fritz an' doiced up alla pedos. 
Y'know f'r certain, ay dinna jump tha fence.  'oo knows wot kinna bug-zappers they got onna propertay, roight?  So's, ay push th'button, anna gray ol' foxie steps aout ta lemme in, squintin' loik 'e canna see may.  So ay buzz up in 'is foice an' tell 'im whoi am 'ere, an 'e woks me up tha path ta that big ol' 'ouse.

Soon as we get inna door, 'e 'angs a left and puts 'is 'and onna Dee Enn Ay lock, an' hopens a door to the rummiest room ay ever did see.  Thairs haltars on foive soids, anna big 'un inna middle wif a yooman kid standin' onnit, wearin' all cere-moan-eeyal robes an' shite, an ay'm aboot ta buzz off, onna 'count of ay'm thinkin', mebbe this job izza bein' a sackrifoice, or summat, when this kid just shrinks on doon ta pixie-soize, an' sez, all fancy-loike, "Greetings. I am Ama. Thank you for coming."

Working For A Living

(game date:  7/15/2021)

 It's official:  I am a workaholic.  

I'm not incapable of taking a break.  In fact, during the entire evening spent with Steff, we didn't discuss our work at all -- not even when we were nearly mobbed by reporters, bloggers, and photographers all trying to get some kind of story about my recent bid for Council Leader.  I hadn't expected quite so massive a reaction.  Hilda nearly had to beat them off with a stick.  Next time, we both go incognito.

But I can't seem to leave work alone for long, and my agenda is always overflowing.  It's one of the traits I inherited from my father, and will probably do more to shorten my life than any other.  

Unreachable Star

 (game date: 06/03/2021)

Lightning extended from Gipson's hands, striking the Foxkin full in the chest.  The sparks crackled all over her body, all exposed fur standing on end.

Had anyone else in our party taken that eldritch blast, we'd have been knocked unconscious, possibly even killed.  I know it hurt Katrya, but when the discharge ended, she still stood.

And she was angry.

I've seen the Foxkin in a lot of fights.  I believe I've mentioned before that she participates in Arena battles, the illegal ones.  I've seen her take a severe beating and come out grinning.  

I've never seen her angry before.

Unbeatable Foe

 (game date: 06/03/2021)

Until the mini-concert, I had been on the fence about actually broadcasting our showdown with Gipson.  Now, filled with confidence, it seemed like the best idea ever, and E.R. had just given me the perfect inspiration for how to begin it.  

When the iDoll returned with low-light goggles, Stelita arrived at about the same time.  That confused me, as I thought Ama had said that Parker was close, but I didn't think anything of it.  There was nothing more for us to do but crowd into "Frank" and go.  The tac-van flew from Chystari, straight for the city Core.

We hadn't gone far when the Crystal Pilot pulled up alongside us in the air. The comms chirped, and Hilda's voice asked, "Someone ordered delivery?"