This is a weekly article, delivered to you every Wednesday. These articles are intended to be a fun exercise as well as a good resource for role-players to explore Character Development so please feel free to post your own characters reaction to the weekly prompt. So be sure to stay tuned to this blog for future installments!
What is your characters chosen profession?
((The next series of stories for now will be about another character of mine, a Vigilante whom goes by the name of Captain Sophie Storm and Farsighter respectably, I hope everyone enjoys it!))
Dockside, Port Oaks, the Rogue Isles.
It was a miserably rainy night in the sprawling portion of town forever called Dockside by its inhabitants. The shadow of Fort Hades loomed close and only those whom where up to no good would have ever considered coming out in any weather to this particular part of town. As you slog your way through the streets you see before you the stone faced building just ahead with its darkened windows and the dark alley leading to the real doorway guarded only by one man, dead and tacked to the wall by his own blade.
As you approach the door, the eyes of the dead man follow you, or seem to, and as your hand balls into a tight fist to knock three times upon the door the corpses mouth slowly opens and beginning to moan the dead mans hand reaches out for you. Thankful you are when the gorilla of a man, sour faced with a sloping protruding forehead lets you in out of the cold, cold rain and the garish and bloody night.
You had come to this place in search of this fabled gunfighter, the merciless witch and gunslinger whom you where told managed terrible feats of stunning accuracy and practiced a form of necromancy so barbarous as to make any assassination she decided to take a sure bet but who’s demand for payment was told to come with a horrific cost. No mark she took would remain alive this was fact most assuredly given and no one better at obtaining and coercing information from any person living or dead. All would sing and die like the ill fated zombified canary that was rumored she kept with her at her side.
The white haired stranger sat with her back to the wall, her head was bowed a black duster of a hat was pulled low, where above a pair of dark government issue sunglasses a pair of storm grey eyes arrest you with their vivid ferocity. She leans forward when you approach taking her booted heels from off the table directly before her. As you take your seat in front of her, the bright yellow little bird hops toward you which had but a moment ago been eating from out of her hand. Now it stands on the table before you blinking at you with beady eyes, its beak stained with blood. The creature begins to warble and then to sing a melancholy song stopping only when she holds up a hand for silence when you begin to ask her name.
Her voice is soft and sibilant like the sound silk makes when it passes over leather, there was an odd lilt to her words which bespoke a place far away and the dark tan told of foreign lands where the sun was a harsh glare and not of this stormy island place. There was a slow fluidity to her limbs each placed with a deliberate grace like the most dangerous snake or skilled dancer. She took off her hat and running a small hand through ghostly white hair she sets her hat upon the table between you and slinging a leather clad arm across the back of her chair she studies you with cool deliberation.
You tell her of your goal, the target which you seek, her gaze remains impassively calm. She reaches out to the small silver lighter and the matching cigarette case which is set to one side on the table before her, between the canary to her left and the wide brimmed hat to her right. She flips the case open and revealing a row of hand rolled sweet smelling cheroot cigarillo’s the scent of rich tobacco, sandalwood and clove thick and cloying to ones senses. She snaps the case shut after offering you one, a polite gesture for one who seems so removed from all things civilized. She shrugs as you decline or leaning forward she holds the small lighter before you setting the end of your cigarillo alight.
She hears you out, listening to your long tale, your plight, your self deluded reasoning for seeking her out to kill a man. She listens with keen observation and interest to the details which you pour forth all in hopes of finding the one you seek. You can not help wondering why you told her so much, opening up to this stranger like she was a long trusted friend or loved one.
Could it be she had soft and kindly face, beautiful in a Mediterranean way really? Was it the expression of her lips which seemed always smiling or the earnestness in her wintery eyes which showed that she was truly listening? No none of these things where right, you could almost place your finger upon it the reason for your confessions, and there it sat seemingly harmless in her hand, the cigarette case showed your reflection in its polished face. The simple spell she had woven had entranced you, the one who sat before her loosening your tongue to show your real self and motivation the real reflection of the one whose image was caught in its gleaming silver surface.
When she asks if you are aware of the price of her services, you hesitate here, still caught in the knowledge of her simple though effective witch craft. She gives you a soft charming throaty laugh and a cocky smile, one that adds a devilish gleam to her silver eyes. She leans forward intimately before you her leather jacket opening to give you a most interesting sight. In several holsters strapped about her body are various instruments, guns of all makes and models, knives, all deadly shapes and sizes, a stun baton, three small black thin packages, two bandolier’s filled with strangely carved bullets and nestled neatly between her breasts having fallen free from her simple black T-shirt a silver snowflake medallion at its center a sapphire as blue as morning skies.
Her voice startles you, she catches you staring, the silvery strands of her hair gleaming in the pale light of the bar. You feel you are alone here only the two of you, your senses dulled lulled by her soft words spoken for only your ears to hear them. “My payment is simple beyond the sum you discussed with my agent I demand payment in spirit as well as in blood. The one whom you seek may be used in payment or another may be substituted but know this I will have my due even if it is your blood and your soul which I keep. Do you agree?”
You give an almost imperceptible nod and she leans back seemingly pleased.
This is a weekly article, delivered to you every Wednesday. These articles are intended to be a fun exercise as well as a good resource for role-players to explore Character Development so please feel free to post your own characters reaction to the weekly prompt. So be sure to stay tuned to this blog for future installments!
What is your characters chosen profession?
((The next series of stories for now will be about another character of mine, a Vigilante whom goes by the name of Captain Sophie Storm and Farsighter respectably, I hope everyone enjoys it!))
Dockside, Port Oaks, the Rogue Isles.
It was a miserably rainy night in the sprawling portion of town forever called Dockside by its inhabitants. The shadow of Fort Hades loomed close and only those whom where up to no good would have ever considered coming out in any weather to this particular part of town. As you slog your way through the streets you see before you the stone faced building just ahead with its darkened windows and the dark alley leading to the real doorway guarded only by one man, dead and tacked to the wall by his own blade.
As you approach the door, the eyes of the dead man follow you, or seem to, and as your hand balls into a tight fist to knock three times upon the door the corpses mouth slowly opens and beginning to moan the dead mans hand reaches out for you. Thankful you are when the gorilla of a man, sour faced with a sloping protruding forehead lets you in out of the cold, cold rain and the garish and bloody night.
You had come to this place in search of this fabled gunfighter, the merciless witch and gunslinger whom you where told managed terrible feats of stunning accuracy and practiced a form of necromancy so barbarous as to make any assassination she decided to take a sure bet but who’s demand for payment was told to come with a horrific cost. No mark she took would remain alive this was fact most assuredly given and no one better at obtaining and coercing information from any person living or dead. All would sing and die like the ill fated zombified canary that was rumored she kept with her at her side.
The white haired stranger sat with her back to the wall, her head was bowed a black duster of a hat was pulled low, where above a pair of dark government issue sunglasses a pair of storm grey eyes arrest you with their vivid ferocity. She leans forward when you approach taking her booted heels from off the table directly before her. As you take your seat in front of her, the bright yellow little bird hops toward you which had but a moment ago been eating from out of her hand. Now it stands on the table before you blinking at you with beady eyes, its beak stained with blood. The creature begins to warble and then to sing a melancholy song stopping only when she holds up a hand for silence when you begin to ask her name.
Her voice is soft and sibilant like the sound silk makes when it passes over leather, there was an odd lilt to her words which bespoke a place far away and the dark tan told of foreign lands where the sun was a harsh glare and not of this stormy island place. There was a slow fluidity to her limbs each placed with a deliberate grace like the most dangerous snake or skilled dancer. She took off her hat and running a small hand through ghostly white hair she sets her hat upon the table between you and slinging a leather clad arm across the back of her chair she studies you with cool deliberation.
You tell her of your goal, the target which you seek, her gaze remains impassively calm. She reaches out to the small silver lighter and the matching cigarette case which is set to one side on the table before her, between the canary to her left and the wide brimmed hat to her right. She flips the case open and revealing a row of hand rolled sweet smelling cheroot cigarillo’s the scent of rich tobacco, sandalwood and clove thick and cloying to ones senses. She snaps the case shut after offering you one, a polite gesture for one who seems so removed from all things civilized. She shrugs as you decline or leaning forward she holds the small lighter before you setting the end of your cigarillo alight.
She hears you out, listening to your long tale, your plight, your self deluded reasoning for seeking her out to kill a man. She listens with keen observation and interest to the details which you pour forth all in hopes of finding the one you seek. You can not help wondering why you told her so much, opening up to this stranger like she was a long trusted friend or loved one.
Could it be she had soft and kindly face, beautiful in a Mediterranean way really? Was it the expression of her lips which seemed always smiling or the earnestness in her wintery eyes which showed that she was truly listening? No none of these things where right, you could almost place your finger upon it the reason for your confessions, and there it sat seemingly harmless in her hand, the cigarette case showed your reflection in its polished face. The simple spell she had woven had entranced you, the one who sat before her loosening your tongue to show your real self and motivation the real reflection of the one whose image was caught in its gleaming silver surface.
When she asks if you are aware of the price of her services, you hesitate here, still caught in the knowledge of her simple though effective witch craft. She gives you a soft charming throaty laugh and a cocky smile, one that adds a devilish gleam to her silver eyes. She leans forward intimately before you her leather jacket opening to give you a most interesting sight. In several holsters strapped about her body are various instruments, guns of all makes and models, knives, all deadly shapes and sizes, a stun baton, three small black thin packages, two bandolier’s filled with strangely carved bullets and nestled neatly between her breasts having fallen free from her simple black T-shirt a silver snowflake medallion at its center a sapphire as blue as morning skies.
Her voice startles you, she catches you staring, the silvery strands of her hair gleaming in the pale light of the bar. You feel you are alone here only the two of you, your senses dulled lulled by her soft words spoken for only your ears to hear them. “My payment is simple beyond the sum you discussed with my agent I demand payment in spirit as well as in blood. The one whom you seek may be used in payment or another may be substituted but know this I will have my due even if it is your blood and your soul which I keep. Do you agree?”
You give an almost imperceptible nod and she leans back seemingly pleased.