Whisper
04-01-07, 07:03 PM
I'll be the first to admit I do things the hard way. For instance, I cannot acceptably write a character until I have crawled in their head, dissected it, and poked all the squishy parts. Sometimes I create characters around an amazing idea and then can't crawl into their skin. This usually ends with me on my frustrated knees going 'Please!' while he/she sticks their nose in their air and goes 'Nope! I saw what you did to the last guy.'
And sometimes...
**
Let me make the introduction. See that man, standing over there, leaning cavalier against the stone wall as if he does not stick out like a sore thumb? As if the townies that pass him - widely - do not glance at him curiously, wondering what man could be so well off he can afford to stand seemingly listless during midday, when all else are pressing hard at their work? He certainly doesn't look like nobility. A gentleman would have piping upon that jerkin, embellishments on those sleeves. He would have a hat. That unruly, dark mop of hair would be somehow contained. The hilt near his thumb tip - that digit watched close by cautious men - would have some adornment.
But this mange, this scruff, this ruffian is just standing there, watching the bustling dock as if he is some casual, scientific observer just taking notes. Only he has no notes. A couple steps past him, nervous on some psychological level that the man will never admit and the woman will never voice and as they do, he shifts, just a shoulder, but the man steps farther away from him, wraps a protective arm around the slim waist of his consort.
The ruffian barely contains his smile and after the couple has walked a few twenty paces, down the pier and to the avenue he knows well, he follows. It isn't very often he is forced to pursue payment from a fellow who still owes his due.
After a large audible dose of clicks from his boots, a young woman runs after him, scampering. Parchment, inkwell, and quills bounce precariously as she reaches him, panting.
"Sir!"
The breathless exclamation is followed by more panting and he pivots, ever so slowly - and commanding, for she reaches only his shoulder - and he raises a quiet, this-had-better-be-important, perfectly penciled dark brow.
She flushes. There is a pause as she considers a curtsy but in the end she believes there is no way to ultimately please him. "If I may, sir. There are some people that need to know about you."
"Need?"
She takes a look into eyes that are dark like black coffee and though he cannot harm her, the menacity in them makes her fidget. In turn, she almost loses the several sheafs of parchment and as she recovers with no help from him, she gushes.
"Well, umm... yes. You see there is this writing board and you know how I like writing and while I know you prefer me to use the other characters... Well, umm, you see... I would like...if you would. I mean-" Oh who is running this confardint show anyway? "I need you to fill out this form." There is, surprisingly, an authority conveyed in her voice.
His bends down and he studies the meticulous scripting, the careful lines painstakingly placed for his input. He does not appear very interested. In fact, he looks particularly disinclined. She is flustered again.
"Okay. I'll fill out the form. You just stand there an answer."
He leisurely places his hands in his pockets, thinking he might derive a minimum of amusement from this. There is a moment his thoughts are correct as she balances inkwell and paper to moisten her quill and then shuffles the disarrangement again to station a paper over the the thin piece of hardwood she carries. Not once during this time does she raise a glance accusing that he has not lifted a finger to help her.
"Okay. Name." Her fingers hold the pen perfectly poised.
He looks at her.
"Oh, yes. Okay. S'pose I can get that."
She scrawls. Alucius Darionne
"Race."
Another look, this one deadpan, from eyes set between two normal ears and above a nose that appears perfectly human.
"Oh. Erm... yeah." She pens.
"Sex," is the next item on the list. She really needs to stop reading out loud.
"Are you offering?" His smile escapes in a half grin. "Because if you are, then no."
She flushes, has no ready retort, and considers writing the letters p-i-g, in sequence, upon the line before it, but then she would have to do all these nice lines over again so she reluctantly spells out m-a-l-e in its space. These letters are darker than the rest and seem to have been written with moderate pressure. His half grin remains but disappears as his eyes scan the next entry, simultaneously voiced.
"Occupation."
He scowls.
"Umm, we'll come back to that later. Appearance."
He rolls his eyes, then, and thinks about wandering off. But then she will only further pester him if he does. She surveys him and then writes down:
Black hair, thick, just past shoulders. Dark eyes, tan skin. Small scar from a blade near his lip, covered by facial hair - a mustached goatee. Facial scruff. Broken nose (twice) that mended nicely. Trousers and vest-like jerkin, both black. The trousers are leather but look worn. The shirt is softened white linen. Both wrists have black leather guards. Silver/pewter rings on three fingers - one looks like it could leave quite a mark. His sword is harnessed in black leather and is pommel-less, the grip wrapped in straw colored cord. It is more like you can sense its constant use, rather than see it. His boots are, of course, black.
"How many knives are you wearing?" she asks.
"Three." She looks puzzled, so, impatiently, he shows her. There is one nestled in a sheath at his back and two others, smaller, disguised beneath each trouser seam, strapped to his boots.
It's ridiculous, but the sight of them unnerves her. "Personality," she says, her voice, already quiet, just a smidgen more so. He crosses his arms, a humored quirk to his lips as he waits to see what she comes up with.
"Umm..."
Quiet. She looks at him. But not because he is shy. Passive. He believes in the old adage 'every man for himself'.
"You know what I believe?" The question is a challenge.
"I created you. I bloody well should," she snaps, irritated because she knows she must use more than two words and half a sentence here to give a description here though she can think of nothing better than what she has already written. He watches. His brow has become deep in thought as if he does not agree with her statement and is thinking of ways to annul it. She continues.
He takes offense easily and is quick to retaliate. In fact, I think he *likes* to be encouraged to draw arms. He seems most happy when he feels his pointy, messy demonstrations have proven well deserved. That is not to say he is heartless. He has one there, somewhere - for what other device would pump forth his blood? Occasionally, Rarely, it will come out from hiding to perform a good deed. Maybe two.
A quick look up through a bushel of eyebrows and the girl is assured he has not taken offense. Yet. She dips the quill, again, with difficulty, and scratches more letters.
In essence, he is the epitome of cavalier. He cares for nothing as he galivants about-
"Galivants?"
She absorbs his tease with a scowl. "I like the word." He shrugs and lets her continue.
- unheeding any structures of government or the normal balance of a daily, unchanging life. Not to say that he is irresponsible, for when it comes to his business he is very responsible indeed. He keeps his appointments and his promises (if you can get him to utter one) and he is actually a reliable friend if, of course, he has deemed you as such. He has no real quirks though he does enjoy a well flavored smoke. He can be clever when a situation is deemed reasonable enough for the trouble and most times he prefers blunt speech over frivolous propriety though he can be fairly deceptive himself, despite the charm in which he delivers, a charm collectively built in a mind free of worries.
Oh, yes, and he is very irritatingly obstinate.
"That's very impressive," he says, meaning it at least for the moment.
"That I actually came up with a paragraph to describe you? Yes it is."
"What's next?"
"Background." She hasn't thought about it but she suddenly does as he glares at her. "Well, you have to have one," she persists.
"I have and I do but there is no particular reason in which it should be revealed." His eyes were beginning to harden into stubborn.
"Well. They have to know SOMETHING."
"That sounds good. Write that."
"Write what?" She has become befuddled.
"That. I lived somewhere, did something, did something else of which I am still doing and, to this point at least, I am still here so something must be working. That's perfect."
"You're inane." The quill taps against her lips as she thinks.
"I've been called worse." He shrugs, uncaring until he sees the first words she pens are not those he said. His fingers snap at the quill. "What are you doing!"
Growl-sighing, she grabs to recapture it but the foot and inches taller man has no problem keeping it away and she comes back with only black fingers.
"Give me that!"
"Alright." He makes no move to comply.
"Alucius!" Her face has become red and puffy and he has become amused. "Give me that pen right now or the next thing I write when I get back to my desk will be your horrible death!"
"Oh, how intriguing," he says, exaggerating a smile.
"You insipid little..." So furious she cannot finish the last words, she angles the hard piece of wood and pushes it fiercely his direction. The gracefulness and ease in which he avoids her is almost sadistic. She ends her angry exclamation with a frustrated "OoooF".
"Oh just go," she says.
Satisfied and very much delighted, he turns. She waits a couple steps until juggling her armload long enough to produce another thin quill. She hastily scratches.
He is a smuggler. He was close to his father, a trader who then became a factor who then became a trader - for he missed the adventures of travel - until his ship was overcome by pirates, his goods stolen and his life taken from him and his wife, two sons and his daughter. Alucius has not talked to his family since that day, though he looks in on his sister, for he took another boat from the pier that day to run the pirates down. He has never found them nor has he since believed in the law. He swears-
"What are you writing?"
The question, like cold steel, is delivered to her ear from a distance not far enough.
"Umm..."
"Give me that!" He reaches for the paper but this time she is quicker and her little feet carry her, pumping, fast down the street.
The smuggler hurries after her. "...wretched little wench..." But he knows he will never catch her, as much as he wills her deceptive little fingers to type it so.
And sometimes...
**
Let me make the introduction. See that man, standing over there, leaning cavalier against the stone wall as if he does not stick out like a sore thumb? As if the townies that pass him - widely - do not glance at him curiously, wondering what man could be so well off he can afford to stand seemingly listless during midday, when all else are pressing hard at their work? He certainly doesn't look like nobility. A gentleman would have piping upon that jerkin, embellishments on those sleeves. He would have a hat. That unruly, dark mop of hair would be somehow contained. The hilt near his thumb tip - that digit watched close by cautious men - would have some adornment.
But this mange, this scruff, this ruffian is just standing there, watching the bustling dock as if he is some casual, scientific observer just taking notes. Only he has no notes. A couple steps past him, nervous on some psychological level that the man will never admit and the woman will never voice and as they do, he shifts, just a shoulder, but the man steps farther away from him, wraps a protective arm around the slim waist of his consort.
The ruffian barely contains his smile and after the couple has walked a few twenty paces, down the pier and to the avenue he knows well, he follows. It isn't very often he is forced to pursue payment from a fellow who still owes his due.
After a large audible dose of clicks from his boots, a young woman runs after him, scampering. Parchment, inkwell, and quills bounce precariously as she reaches him, panting.
"Sir!"
The breathless exclamation is followed by more panting and he pivots, ever so slowly - and commanding, for she reaches only his shoulder - and he raises a quiet, this-had-better-be-important, perfectly penciled dark brow.
She flushes. There is a pause as she considers a curtsy but in the end she believes there is no way to ultimately please him. "If I may, sir. There are some people that need to know about you."
"Need?"
She takes a look into eyes that are dark like black coffee and though he cannot harm her, the menacity in them makes her fidget. In turn, she almost loses the several sheafs of parchment and as she recovers with no help from him, she gushes.
"Well, umm... yes. You see there is this writing board and you know how I like writing and while I know you prefer me to use the other characters... Well, umm, you see... I would like...if you would. I mean-" Oh who is running this confardint show anyway? "I need you to fill out this form." There is, surprisingly, an authority conveyed in her voice.
His bends down and he studies the meticulous scripting, the careful lines painstakingly placed for his input. He does not appear very interested. In fact, he looks particularly disinclined. She is flustered again.
"Okay. I'll fill out the form. You just stand there an answer."
He leisurely places his hands in his pockets, thinking he might derive a minimum of amusement from this. There is a moment his thoughts are correct as she balances inkwell and paper to moisten her quill and then shuffles the disarrangement again to station a paper over the the thin piece of hardwood she carries. Not once during this time does she raise a glance accusing that he has not lifted a finger to help her.
"Okay. Name." Her fingers hold the pen perfectly poised.
He looks at her.
"Oh, yes. Okay. S'pose I can get that."
She scrawls. Alucius Darionne
"Race."
Another look, this one deadpan, from eyes set between two normal ears and above a nose that appears perfectly human.
"Oh. Erm... yeah." She pens.
"Sex," is the next item on the list. She really needs to stop reading out loud.
"Are you offering?" His smile escapes in a half grin. "Because if you are, then no."
She flushes, has no ready retort, and considers writing the letters p-i-g, in sequence, upon the line before it, but then she would have to do all these nice lines over again so she reluctantly spells out m-a-l-e in its space. These letters are darker than the rest and seem to have been written with moderate pressure. His half grin remains but disappears as his eyes scan the next entry, simultaneously voiced.
"Occupation."
He scowls.
"Umm, we'll come back to that later. Appearance."
He rolls his eyes, then, and thinks about wandering off. But then she will only further pester him if he does. She surveys him and then writes down:
Black hair, thick, just past shoulders. Dark eyes, tan skin. Small scar from a blade near his lip, covered by facial hair - a mustached goatee. Facial scruff. Broken nose (twice) that mended nicely. Trousers and vest-like jerkin, both black. The trousers are leather but look worn. The shirt is softened white linen. Both wrists have black leather guards. Silver/pewter rings on three fingers - one looks like it could leave quite a mark. His sword is harnessed in black leather and is pommel-less, the grip wrapped in straw colored cord. It is more like you can sense its constant use, rather than see it. His boots are, of course, black.
"How many knives are you wearing?" she asks.
"Three." She looks puzzled, so, impatiently, he shows her. There is one nestled in a sheath at his back and two others, smaller, disguised beneath each trouser seam, strapped to his boots.
It's ridiculous, but the sight of them unnerves her. "Personality," she says, her voice, already quiet, just a smidgen more so. He crosses his arms, a humored quirk to his lips as he waits to see what she comes up with.
"Umm..."
Quiet. She looks at him. But not because he is shy. Passive. He believes in the old adage 'every man for himself'.
"You know what I believe?" The question is a challenge.
"I created you. I bloody well should," she snaps, irritated because she knows she must use more than two words and half a sentence here to give a description here though she can think of nothing better than what she has already written. He watches. His brow has become deep in thought as if he does not agree with her statement and is thinking of ways to annul it. She continues.
He takes offense easily and is quick to retaliate. In fact, I think he *likes* to be encouraged to draw arms. He seems most happy when he feels his pointy, messy demonstrations have proven well deserved. That is not to say he is heartless. He has one there, somewhere - for what other device would pump forth his blood? Occasionally, Rarely, it will come out from hiding to perform a good deed. Maybe two.
A quick look up through a bushel of eyebrows and the girl is assured he has not taken offense. Yet. She dips the quill, again, with difficulty, and scratches more letters.
In essence, he is the epitome of cavalier. He cares for nothing as he galivants about-
"Galivants?"
She absorbs his tease with a scowl. "I like the word." He shrugs and lets her continue.
- unheeding any structures of government or the normal balance of a daily, unchanging life. Not to say that he is irresponsible, for when it comes to his business he is very responsible indeed. He keeps his appointments and his promises (if you can get him to utter one) and he is actually a reliable friend if, of course, he has deemed you as such. He has no real quirks though he does enjoy a well flavored smoke. He can be clever when a situation is deemed reasonable enough for the trouble and most times he prefers blunt speech over frivolous propriety though he can be fairly deceptive himself, despite the charm in which he delivers, a charm collectively built in a mind free of worries.
Oh, yes, and he is very irritatingly obstinate.
"That's very impressive," he says, meaning it at least for the moment.
"That I actually came up with a paragraph to describe you? Yes it is."
"What's next?"
"Background." She hasn't thought about it but she suddenly does as he glares at her. "Well, you have to have one," she persists.
"I have and I do but there is no particular reason in which it should be revealed." His eyes were beginning to harden into stubborn.
"Well. They have to know SOMETHING."
"That sounds good. Write that."
"Write what?" She has become befuddled.
"That. I lived somewhere, did something, did something else of which I am still doing and, to this point at least, I am still here so something must be working. That's perfect."
"You're inane." The quill taps against her lips as she thinks.
"I've been called worse." He shrugs, uncaring until he sees the first words she pens are not those he said. His fingers snap at the quill. "What are you doing!"
Growl-sighing, she grabs to recapture it but the foot and inches taller man has no problem keeping it away and she comes back with only black fingers.
"Give me that!"
"Alright." He makes no move to comply.
"Alucius!" Her face has become red and puffy and he has become amused. "Give me that pen right now or the next thing I write when I get back to my desk will be your horrible death!"
"Oh, how intriguing," he says, exaggerating a smile.
"You insipid little..." So furious she cannot finish the last words, she angles the hard piece of wood and pushes it fiercely his direction. The gracefulness and ease in which he avoids her is almost sadistic. She ends her angry exclamation with a frustrated "OoooF".
"Oh just go," she says.
Satisfied and very much delighted, he turns. She waits a couple steps until juggling her armload long enough to produce another thin quill. She hastily scratches.
He is a smuggler. He was close to his father, a trader who then became a factor who then became a trader - for he missed the adventures of travel - until his ship was overcome by pirates, his goods stolen and his life taken from him and his wife, two sons and his daughter. Alucius has not talked to his family since that day, though he looks in on his sister, for he took another boat from the pier that day to run the pirates down. He has never found them nor has he since believed in the law. He swears-
"What are you writing?"
The question, like cold steel, is delivered to her ear from a distance not far enough.
"Umm..."
"Give me that!" He reaches for the paper but this time she is quicker and her little feet carry her, pumping, fast down the street.
The smuggler hurries after her. "...wretched little wench..." But he knows he will never catch her, as much as he wills her deceptive little fingers to type it so.