30 day writing challenge – Character Development.
A wonderful fellow Jelly, @muppetish, has encouraged me to give myself a Writing Challenge: 30 days, one character per day.
Each day during the challenge, I will break out my dice and roll up a new character.
Here is how it will be done:
1. List each of the 6 Player Statistics: Strength, Dexterity, Intelligence, Wisdom, Constitution, and Charisma.
2. Roll 3d6 for each stat, right down the line. No number dropping, no re-rolling.
3. Create a detailed character back-story that matches the numbers rolled.
With any luck, the dice will provide me with a diverse group of new characters to populate the lovely land of Anithné.
******
Day 1.
STR: 4 DEX: 12
INT: 11 CON: 16
WIS: 11 CHA: 8
Well. A Strength of 4. We’re off to a great start. Oi. Thanks, dice.
According to the Player’s Handbook, anything with a STR of 5 or lower can only be a magic-user. Works for me. With an INT of 11, he won’t be the next Merlin, but he’ll do. I can see the biggest challenge is going to be explaining such a low STR alongside a high CON.
Ashy etCalgar is a stout, barrel-chested man of 56 years. Not a troll, but not handsome either. He has a tangle of mousy brown hair and big, dark eyes with lashes any woman would covet. His face is freckled and lined with laughter, but the skin is smooth and free of scars and pockmarks. If one ignored the sleeves of his robes, he would seem the picture of youthful health even at his age.
He lay stretched upon the brick wall surrounding the fountain in the midst of the market square of Mizaren. The sun was shining gaily, the roads bustling with commerce and noisy with the chatter of gossip and merchants hawking their wares. Ashy, his head resting upon a thin arm that ended abruptly before the fist could begin, balanced a paper-wrapped sweetmeat upon his wide chest, and picked at it with three spidery fingers attached to a frail wrist. Every third morsel went to Nikal, the tiny, three-legged orange kitten that paced the ground beneath him.
When the pastry was finished, Ashy licked his fingers, tossed the satchel over his narrow left shoulder, and scooped the kitty to her favourite resting-place on the other. Gaily making his way though the crowd, stopping here and there to greet an acquaintance, the man came to the carven blue doors of the Temple of the Lady. Most worshipers wouldn’t arrive until nightfall – when the Lady shone her silver face upon the land below – but Ashy had a bit of work to do.
Down the iron staircase, through the corridor, second door on the left, and Ashy knocked with his handless arm thrice. It opened into a library, if one could call it that, a room with a few stout shelves laden with dusty tomes, and a couple of uncomfortable chairs against a warped wooden table. The apprentice priestesses hadn’t forgotten him – the lantern on the table was lit for him. He smiled, wondering who had remembered. The last time it had taken ages for him to light the thing himself, and by then he had little energy left to work. He lifted a cloth-bound book from a nearby shelf, and carried it to the table. Aye, it was still unintelligible.
Ashy was most comfortable here – working slowly and diligently as he could at translating and copying these texts, preserving their knowledge for generations. The priestesses were kind – bringing him meals and at times keeping him company. There would be no companionship today, though. This book had been lying blank on the table before him for more than a month. He had performed nearly every spell he knew many times, but the writing would simply not appear. He generally was not surprised by failure, as his magic had always been a bit hit-and-miss. That was the best part about this job: If his magic failed, he could hurt no one but himself.
Taking a deep breath, Ashy knew what he had to do. It was a spell he was not fond of – dangerous and unpredictable. He crossed the room to a cupboard and drew out a small ink-bottle. He dipped his brush in the ink, and set it to the freshly bound copying book. The ink seemed to glow of its own accord, a deep otherworldly blue. One more deep breath, and Ashy began to speak the words of the spell. His short arm rested on the protected tome, his other clutched the writing-brush. If he could not read the text, he would try to magically copy its contents. The brush began to move. It was all Ashy could do to keep his eyes closed – to hold his concentration and not sneak a look at the developing spell.
The temptation was too much. His arms were aching, his head hurt, and he could no longer think clearly. His eyes opened, and there was a fiery flash as he was sent reeling backward. His head struck the wall behind him, but that pain was unnoticed due to the madness brewing in his psyche.
The next time his eyes opened, they were met by the kind grey eyes of the priestess-mother. “Ah, dear Ashy… There you are. You are a stout fellow. A lesser man wouldn’t have waked from such a shock.” She placed a warm cloth upon his forehead. “It’s been a week. We’re passing that text on to the Druids. You’ll tell me next time you’re in over your head, won’t you?”
