Exercise 1 - Adrian
A fight for sure. Perhaps even a threat.
Tall- almost as much as myself, but that's no cause for worry. Sturdily built, that's a concern at least. Wide shoulders and a few telling shows of muscle in the arms, strong legs, strong stance. Black hair- a great deal, mild curls, long and loose- odd. They stand so alert and sure, there's no hiding the dagger at their hip, and I'm positive that ruffle in their shirt is concealing another blade. But to leave your hair loose, that long? They're... either foolish or confident.
Confident. Pale scars in darker skin are enough to tell that; most old. One across the nose, thin line down their neck, small pockmarks and dips in their hands show more than a few encounters with firearms, splinters, fire. They move too easily though, too lighthearted, a laugh and glib remark from lips painted garnet red. Gestures too casual with too strong hands heavy in rings, I must admit... I'm impressed by their strategy there. A pirate king- in theory and style at least if not actual reality- must dress rich of course. Handsome silk waistcoat in rich brown, floral pattern over a long sleeved, close-fit red shirt, brown leather half gloves; flat leather boots up to the knee and calfskin pants... and rings, all manner of rings and jewelry along the neck, even in their hair. Well covered and in material to turn and tangle a casual blade, heavy metal rings set with rough gems that can well take out your eye or crush a cheekbone if you're not paying attention.
Definitely a pirate.
They meet my gaze, close brown eyes almost amber in this light and it's making me itch, want to strike now because they've got to be planning it too, they assess and know what I'm for. But... courteous. We're in company and they'd never be so crass as to pull a knife on someone without cause. At least...
I cannot believe I'm thinking this, but: at least, I hope.
You're playing dumb. I see you there, clinging to their arm. You play the part of pet, don't you? Slim and pale, shorter than your companion (lover for sure, not every look on your face is an act, is it?) by a bit... half a head or so. Your dress doesn't leave much to hide, does it, arms wholly bare and hem barely past the hips, plain black... a striking appearance, I concede, and I must admit I'd be impressed if you did have anything hidden there. Perhaps that gold band along your left arm... I've seen blades flexible enough to hide in one, though... You strike me more as a fondness for poison. You seem so innocuous, a trophy, a beauty, a prize; all straight spun-gold hair and wide set bright eyes like the emeralds on your lover's fingers, airy laughs and light touches that shimmers of gold. How did I take so long to notice? So few adornments because you carry them naturally; scaled in gold along your cheeks, your brow, shoulders and arms and fingers and shins, even your feet; you are some pirate's prize, aren't you? But I see you watching when they aren't, fingers dancing along their hip and near the dagger's hilt. How much blood on your hands from this trick? How does the thought of it make me so sick? I know better than anyone that position, the prized pet trained to kill at so much as the flick of an eye... But you're more than that, aren't you.
Too easy. I imagine you rely on initial intimidation than any skill, if you even have anything that could be called skill. Taller than me by a full head and some, even I must admit to being unsettled by it. A thin body too long, lean arms and ropy legs that barely even make it to the knee before becoming a dragon's. The tail and wings would be... troublesome, true. Three limbs more to keep track of, one covered in spines and the others ready to flail, thumb-hooked with claws wicked as those on your fingers and toes. But I see your lean as you stand tall, the sway and how you lean back against that tail to stay up, you'd topple the second it moved, or trip up over anything under those feet, wouldn't you? You keep your wings too close too, curved around your shoulders and around yourself; a flick of rope and you'd be tangled, dead before you got halfway out. But I don't think you're a complete pushover. Too skinny to have enough force to worry about, no, you're fast. You slip and dart faster than most can react, and something tells me you believe courtesy is something for other people. You'd gouge, bite and kick and claw at eyes, chests, groin, anywhere and everywhere you could reach, wouldn't you? You fight on instinct and impulse and emotion, no plan in the slightest. Rely on that unpredictability to get the upper hand, or slink away as soon as there's a pause. You don't have much of a redeeming look to yourself. Hunched and narrowed eyes darting here and there, the way your lips twitch when you see me, even if I can't hear it, you're certainly growling, aren't you? Gaunt face, long and sharp jawed, shaggy brown hair all shot with gray (at least it looks like such a mess, I don't think it would be easy to grab?) you look like the dogs that skulked around the Vila. Starved and dirty and mean, ready to kill each other for half a scrap of meat, just as patchy too. The little you wear is so worn and full of holes, scales a sick dull green, I can see them flaking off even now... I think I pity you.
He's... different. Timid. Shoulders too thin and too wide, he's not quite as bad as the last one but he still looks half-starved. Has the decency to try and look somewhere near put together; white button up and black slacks and brown loafers... professional type or at least hoping to be. Probably his only point of pride. He cringes away from me, but his eyes don't leave me; deepset, black rimmed eyes like black stones, it's like he can't fully look away even if he wants to. A thin face, pallid and sickly. Lips and fingernails chewed too ragged, lank black hair pulled back and longer even than the pirate's. Thin hands and fingers that lace and run over each other, he looks ready to kneel and beg for his life... Would he? Or would he just as me to make it quick and painless? He looks like he sleeps too much and doesn't get a second of rest, stance bowed like he's loaded with more weight than he can even hope to carry. Eyes like black stones ready to spill over, he's a crier, isn't he? There's no fight in him, it was emptied out a long time ago if it was even there in the first place. A quiet cog about to give out and break down, nothing to be concerned about... But something isn't right about him. There's something he's hiding, and it makes me feel... cold. Frightened.
You're playing dumb. I see you there, clinging to their arm. You play the part of pet, don't you? Slim and pale, shorter than your companion (lover for sure, not every look on your face is an act, is it?) by a bit... half a head or so. Your dress doesn't leave much to hide, does it, arms wholly bare and hem barely past the hips, plain black... a striking appearance, I concede, and I must admit I'd be impressed if you did have anything hidden there. Perhaps that gold band along your left arm... I've seen blades flexible enough to hide in one, though... You strike me more as a fondness for poison. You seem so innocuous, a trophy, a beauty, a prize; all straight spun-gold hair and wide set bright eyes like the emeralds on your lover's fingers, airy laughs and light touches that shimmers of gold. How did I take so long to notice? So few adornments because you carry them naturally; scaled in gold along your cheeks, your brow, shoulders and arms and fingers and shins, even your feet; you are some pirate's prize, aren't you? But I see you watching when they aren't, fingers dancing along their hip and near the dagger's hilt. How much blood on your hands from this trick? How does the thought of it make me so sick? I know better than anyone that position, the prized pet trained to kill at so much as the flick of an eye... But you're more than that, aren't you.
Too easy. I imagine you rely on initial intimidation than any skill, if you even have anything that could be called skill. Taller than me by a full head and some, even I must admit to being unsettled by it. A thin body too long, lean arms and ropy legs that barely even make it to the knee before becoming a dragon's. The tail and wings would be... troublesome, true. Three limbs more to keep track of, one covered in spines and the others ready to flail, thumb-hooked with claws wicked as those on your fingers and toes. But I see your lean as you stand tall, the sway and how you lean back against that tail to stay up, you'd topple the second it moved, or trip up over anything under those feet, wouldn't you? You keep your wings too close too, curved around your shoulders and around yourself; a flick of rope and you'd be tangled, dead before you got halfway out. But I don't think you're a complete pushover. Too skinny to have enough force to worry about, no, you're fast. You slip and dart faster than most can react, and something tells me you believe courtesy is something for other people. You'd gouge, bite and kick and claw at eyes, chests, groin, anywhere and everywhere you could reach, wouldn't you? You fight on instinct and impulse and emotion, no plan in the slightest. Rely on that unpredictability to get the upper hand, or slink away as soon as there's a pause. You don't have much of a redeeming look to yourself. Hunched and narrowed eyes darting here and there, the way your lips twitch when you see me, even if I can't hear it, you're certainly growling, aren't you? Gaunt face, long and sharp jawed, shaggy brown hair all shot with gray (at least it looks like such a mess, I don't think it would be easy to grab?) you look like the dogs that skulked around the Vila. Starved and dirty and mean, ready to kill each other for half a scrap of meat, just as patchy too. The little you wear is so worn and full of holes, scales a sick dull green, I can see them flaking off even now... I think I pity you.
He's... different. Timid. Shoulders too thin and too wide, he's not quite as bad as the last one but he still looks half-starved. Has the decency to try and look somewhere near put together; white button up and black slacks and brown loafers... professional type or at least hoping to be. Probably his only point of pride. He cringes away from me, but his eyes don't leave me; deepset, black rimmed eyes like black stones, it's like he can't fully look away even if he wants to. A thin face, pallid and sickly. Lips and fingernails chewed too ragged, lank black hair pulled back and longer even than the pirate's. Thin hands and fingers that lace and run over each other, he looks ready to kneel and beg for his life... Would he? Or would he just as me to make it quick and painless? He looks like he sleeps too much and doesn't get a second of rest, stance bowed like he's loaded with more weight than he can even hope to carry. Eyes like black stones ready to spill over, he's a crier, isn't he? There's no fight in him, it was emptied out a long time ago if it was even there in the first place. A quiet cog about to give out and break down, nothing to be concerned about... But something isn't right about him. There's something he's hiding, and it makes me feel... cold. Frightened.
(Part one of five - an exercise to best describe my core five characters from each others' perspective.)
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