Spike froze in place. He couldn't be seeing what he thought he'd been seeing... The golden eyes and bumpy forehead on Buffy of all people.
Brow creasing he shook his head.
"No..." his voice came out as a rough croak. Bloody hell, absolutely not. He was terrified to approach her knowing how a demon could simply change a person. Not everyone, he knew that from experience but Buffy had been so different. In the end he shook his head and backed away slowly.
Writing Exercise: Character Creation (Checklists, 1)
While it can seem like a challenge to get characters drawn out, checklists can be a saving grace. So go through the checklists provided here, and answer as many as possible. If any are irrelevant or would be a bad fit, then by all means skip them. Try not to skip a lot of them. Think of them as graded questions on a school test, each one counts. The first checklist is a great starting point.
Are…
For this exercise, you’re going to have to take your trusty notebook outside. Find a place where you can observe people, and make notes without worrying about anyone noticing. If you have a larger notebook, then you should be able to break a page into four sections. If you’ve got a smaller notebook, then you may want to use two pages that you can break into two sections each.
Section One
For…
What proceeds was a writing exercise as to where my character 'lives' in the LARP I attend. Although most LARP characters fit the bill of 'sociopathic murder hobo', it occurred to me that, given sufficient resources and his druthers, this would not apply to Oren. Thus, I sought to give some depiction to where he shall eventually live, and encourage others to do the same for their own characters, as, if home is where the heart lies, it may be fruitful to learn about the home your character would have, much as it would speak to their character.
Or not. Ultimately, up to you.
A small cottage, with a thatched roof, stands in the middle of the forest, not far from the town of Yorik, in a province of Harodom which is said alternately to be cursed, haunted, or simply singularly unlucky. The cottage is made of red brick, but covered in growing and climbing vines, and the thatch, while new, barely covers what appears to be char-scoring on the upper parts of the walls - suggesting that, at least once, the thatch of this cottage has ignited. A small garden in the back grows a combination of herbs and weeds which suggest that while much loved, the garden is ill-attended. The door, thick and oaken, is reinforced with a dark metal, resolute and strong.
To know the resident of the cottage, it appears to be useful to consider its contents. The walls are all but covered in shelves, most of which contain books on obscure topics and esoterica, bound in leather and brass, and apparently unlabeled. Within, most of the books are written in a spidery but neat handwriting, the vellum of the books holding the scent of the slightly-acidic ink mixed with the the cloying smoke of the beeswax candles. Other books are incomprehensible, a code or shorthand not popularly used filling the pages which do not possess some form of technical diagram or another. An elabourate candelabra sits on the main table in the room, and other candle holders, most of which have some description of dribbly candle within, rest on the various tables. The stone fireplace, empty of soot, is set for a fire that remains, as yet, unlit.
On what looks to be a workman's bench, phials of sand and ash of various colours and demeanours take up a large organizer seemingly custom-made to their fitting. A crystal sphere, of the sort made famous by carnival seers, sits on a three-pronged setting that seems built to accommodate its shape, and a set of much beleagured cards sit next to it - cards, slightly greasy to the touch, which bear images of men and beasts, gods and demons, depictions grand, beautiful, and frightening. The ink-pot that sits upon the desk has been left half-capped, and the smell of the ink is the same acidic scent trapped upon the pages of the books, but stronger. A selection of quills and a knife to keep their edge sit on the side of the desk, and a cold teapot rests next to a crude clay mug which is empty save for the leavings of oversteeped tea - now evapourated.
The floor, a jigsaw of poorly-stained and much-abused hardwood, is covered in warmly coloured rugs which - to a truly inquiring or nosy mind - may be peeled back to reveal a door leading downward to a root cellar, with a complicated lock holding it in place. Provided one possesses the key, it should be noted that beneath the door, a bar allows those within to shut out any from descending. The narrow ladder creaks beneath the weight of a nosy snoop, and climaxes at a dirt floor, facing an iron gateway, also locked.
Pushing past this further impediment, the tunnel is long, narrow, and surprisingly well ventilated. The air beneath has none of the scent of a tunnel, although it is earthen, for the walls are plastered, the floor well-drained - much better flooring, in fact, than the hardwood in the cottage above - and the tunnel lightable with oil lanterns, affixed in place, and with a thin mesh screen over them, for no immediately visible reason. The tunnel proceeds a few hundred meters before rising again - into a cave, some distance from the cottage, where strewn cotton gives the appearance of spider's webs, and a deceased spider sits at the mouth of the cave, upon close inspection, poorly taxidermied.
Before that apex is reached however, the tunnel splits - the second branch leading first to a store room, which has a small armoury - weapons, shields, barding for a horse, and leathers, plate and chain enough for a small force - and what appears to be a mystical and alchemical workshop, an actual marble floor cut with grooves stained dark with an odd alchemical ink, and an oaken table holding glass artifice that suggests an epidemic of hiccoughs at the glass-blower's convention. A small, hand-embroidered sign sitting next to the alchemical apparatus reminds the reader that 'Smoking is bad for one's health - particularly if they like being not at all on fire'.
Further down the hall, a library, this one with books looking to be somewhat less home-made, and altogether more exotic and rare, along with an overstuffed armchair, only slightly stained with by food, wine, and a touch of blood. A cloakrack bears two or three hooded cloaks, the table has a candle burned to the nub and the remains of bread and cheese, with a butt of poorly corked wine leaving a ring on the oak of the table. A jug, basin, and copper mirror sit on the opposing table, along with a few rags and a sponge, next to what appears to be a healer's kit.
