RPA: Baby Seymour and Circ

For your first post, simply play your character however you feel is suitable in the setting I will provide. Based on my assessment of your response, I will craft a hopefully helpful path of growth for you. For these lessons, you have complete control of your character and his/her surroundings, with the condition that there is no conflicting information. When I post, you will see my comments in crimson at the top. Good luck.

. . .

She can see her guest is quietly slumbering, warm and cozy beneath the soft linen comforter obscuring the outline of their form. Much more peacefully than a few hours earlier, where they had been deliriously raving about their inability to recollect who they were, where they were from, and so forth. Based on that, and the horrible bruise to the back of their head, Abella had concluded her visitor is an amnesiac; someone whose memory has been wiped away by a traumatic event. It seemed to fit, as Abella had found the person laying just beyond the front steps of her small townhouse located in an utterly average part of the city. Walking toward a nightstand beside the bed, Abella replaces the washcloth on her guest's forehead with a fresh one.

"You're going to have to wake up eventually, you know," she says kindly. The person had, after all, been laying there for two days.

“NO! You can’t have them! They are mine! Please, just leave me! I don’t want any trouble but please, I cannot let you-“

Darkness

He sat up with a start, sending the cool damp washcloth falling to the floor. A terrible pain prangs within his skull and the man is forced to lie back again, this time with his head resting on the wall that the rough cot has been pushed against. Vision blurred, but clearing rapidly he attempts to take in his surroundings. The outline of the room becomes clear first, it is small and snug, with a low roof and light sources, which he could only assume to be windows poured brightness and warmth into the space.

With obvious pain in his movements the injured man raises his arm to the back of his head, which appears to be the source of pain and discomfort. Feeling an obvious bulge in his scalp and tenderness to the touch, he replaces his arm under the comforter, and raises to his elbows, in a second, slower and more tentative effort to sit up.

Now, with some degree of composition regained, he is aware of beads of sweat dripping from his bald head, converging mostly into larger drips inside his well-kept beard. Wiping some of the moisture away he turns towards the centre of the room and notices the form of a woman kneeling by a low table, apparently drinking tea. His mind begins a risk assessment, as if it had done so many times before. The woman seems elderly and kind; with a warmth about her witch put the man at ease in an unfamiliar way. Strangely comforted, he felt it safe to attempt to attract her attention, and make some sort of sense to the situation.

“Hello…?” Was all he could manage in a pained voice.

I congratulate you on whipping out a decent response in such a short period, but keep in mind that this is a message board, and nobody expects a huge turnover rate. I’d rather you invest a little more time working out nuances, even if it means leaving an unfinished work to complete the next day. In fact, I find going back to reread something gives me a greater appreciation for how it can be enhanced.

Word count. Certain people on this forum stress word count. I do not, and as such will be happy with any quantity of writing you produce, so long as it is well written and fully accounts for what you are trying to express.

Style. This isn’t high school English, so beyond our discussion on IRC, I will try not to digress on your spelling or grammar unless either become abominable. However, keep in mind that such things effect one’s reading of a story, i.e., how they perceive it.

* By beginning with a flashback, you attempt to make the scene interesting; it is a good effort. That tool added continuity to the story, building on what I presented in my post, while also helping to define your character.

* You manage to take an equal amount of responsibility for the scene. Excellent! Never be afraid to do that. You add value to the setting by introducing elements such as the cot, the lowness of the ceiling and windows, and by subtly hinting at the time of day.

* By making an assumption about someone else’s character’s physical appearance, you tread on dangerous ground. People tend to be offended by that, and I wouldn’t recommend doing such in an open thread. However, within this environment, I encourage experimentation. Granted, it is my fault for failing to do so myself—however, for whose benefit is it, really? It is not for the benefit of the reader, but for the other writers. When flying solo, which I tend to do, it is just nice to not have the requirement of beginning every character introduction with what amounts to vital statistics.

Miscellany. Please do not edit your posts. Leave them as though they are set in stone, because if you ever refer back to them, you will see your first impressions and be able to determine whether the time you spent here was well-spent.

. . .

A few minutes ago, it had been cloudy out, but a strong breeze has done away with the thick nimbus formation. Now a steady flow of sunlight penetrates the antique glass panes and warming up the room’s eastern wall. ‘One does not feed a starving man steak,’ observes Abella, fluttering toward the nearest window and pulling the vinyl blind across its face, altering the landscape to one less vivid to accommodate her guest’s presently fragile eyesight.

“Is that better” she says, pulling a dusty, four-leg stool from beneath the nightstand and sitting down next to the cot. A strand of long, gray hair falls from behind her ear, and Abella occupies herself by twirling it around the wrinkly knuckle of her pointer finger. She is nervous, but that is from having a strange man in her house. It occurs to her that she should call the police, but what would she tell them beyond ‘I found a strange man in the street’?

Her paranoid musing nearly causes her to miss the listening part of her conversation with the man.

The lower light was comforting to his eyes, having previously been dazzled by the concentrated beams and effectively blinded. He could finally focus properly and fixed his gaze on his caretaker. He realised that not yet introduced himself. Disgusted by his own rudeness towards a lady he opened his cracked and dry mouth to speak.

“Thank you for looking after me like this, I hope I have not been a burden kind lady, I am-“

Panic took hold of him. He had no idea of his own name. How could this be happening? How does one forget that? What sort of imbecile has no recollection of their own god damn name? Shame was obvious in his eyes as they started darting back and forth, as if to try and jog his memory, yet there seemed to be no memory there to jog. Anger began to build up inside him, had he not been in the presence of a female he would be shouting and cursing at his own stupidity loudly enough to rattle the porcelain teacups resting on the table on the other side of the room.
His eyes lowered, attempting to hide his disgust.

“I am sorry, I don’t know.”
He paused to consider his next move momentarily.
“I shall not bother you any longer madam, thank you for caring for me. Please excuse me.”

The man began to raise himself out of the cot, the aging springs underneath giving out a loud groan. As the comforter slipped away from him, he realised for the first time that he was naked, apart from his underwear. This was bad enough, but looking down he also noticed a large wound running from the left to the right side of his abdomen, inflicted by some sort of sharp object. This had previously been nought but a dull ache under the coarse blanket, but upon seeing his condition the pain had escalated to unbearable levels. Clutching the source of his agony, the man fell back to a sitting position on the cot, his feet on the cold floor.
His eyes now tightly closed and teeth bared, he had been immobilised. He could do nothing but sit there at the mercy of this woman, who could, for all he knew be his assailant.

What an excellent post! While your writing has a few peccadilloes, its flow is like chocolate syrup: smooth, rich in color, and each small taste leaves me wanting just a spoonful more. Anyway, that is enough platitudes. Onward to the specifics.

Character Traits. There is one thing in particular that shines forth in your writing: your character has a freakin’ personality! So often, I find characters lacking this vital trait, so much so that when I encounter it, it makes me unbelievably happy. Your creation expresses paranoia, frustration, and—most importantly—is believable. Now I challenge you to remain consistent in this as you reveal more of your character’s behavior and personality.

The Fuhrer wasn't a mousy little mama's boy! The Fuhrer was BUTCH!

The Plot. You write as though you have an idea of where this is heading. That’s good. It makes me believe this is going somewhere! Now, to be fair, neither of us really have to have any clue what the ultimate destination is, but try to look forward and see what you want to accomplish with the story. Is there some moral we’re going to expose via the tragic history of this man’s encounter with crime, some memory we’re going to awaken of his days in the war of the loss of his elderly mother? Lots can be done—it just depends on where you want to take it.

Gentlemen, you are hereby granted a full pardon for having - through song and dance - brought joy and laughter into the hearts of every murderer, rapist, and sex maniac in Sing Sing! You're free!

. . .

In alarm at the man’s commotion—his sudden stir, his agonizing groan, the bloody smear traversing his nude belly incriminating the room like a scarlet letter—Abella leaps off her stool, sending it clattering sidelong across the wide-beam oak planks of the floor. Her left hand, all-atremble, flutters to her mouth where the warm condensation of erratic breaths against her fingertips allows her to recover her nerve.

‘I am a nervous fuddy-duddy,’ she inwardly observes, seeing the man is no threat in his weak state. As if to make amends, she kneels down and rights the stool, sitting on it once more.

“Nonsense, you aren’t bothering me at all!”—she lies, quite obviously—“and besides, you are in no condition to do anything but lay there and rest. I am Abelle Becorshire. It is quite alright if you don’t remember anything. You have a nasty knot on the back of your head to excuse some light amnesia.”

“Some light amnesia. Right,” returns the man, sounding not thoroughly convinced of her explanation.

“Tea is what you need.” she redirects to things more in harmony with her education, “I’d offer you milk and sugar, but I’m out of one and the other will do you no good. Perhaps some lime to curb the flavor?”

((Sorry I have taken so long to reply, I have been on a team-building week without Internet access, but I’m back now.))
. . .

Tea was the last thing on his mind. A mind still working at double speed, attempting pathetically to piece together the faded puzzle of himself.
The pain in his abdomen subsided momentarily allowing him to unclench his eyes and regain focus on his surroundings: The wooden and earth hovel structure lacking luxury in all aspects, the now darkening sky outside, still visible through the worn and thin vinyl, and the woman.

He obviously owed this kind lady more than gratitude, but had not even an explanation to offer her.

“No thank you ma-am” He replies, “I doubt if I could even bring myself to raise the cup to my lips.”

Attempting to conceal his agony the man again slowly rises to his feet, rocking back and forth due to the mist in his consciousness.
As if on autopilot he began bowing to the old woman, as was proper, but the added pressure on his wound pained him, the blood again dripping down his naked body. It took a great deal of mental effort to remain unfazed, at least outwardly.

“I must again sincerely apologise for my rudeness, though I do not ask your forgiveness.”
He began glancing down his nude chest, hopefully signalling that he would like his clothes. However whilst he was surveying himself a dark mark on the inside of his left wrist became apparent to him. Upon closer inspection it appeared to be some form of tattoo or branding reading ‘Geddoe’ in scrawled letters, redness still visible around the affected area.

Reading this, the man’s memory was jogged slightly, enough to recall that this was his name, though the origin of the tattoo eluded him.

“Geddoe” He said slowly, in a tone similar to that of a drunk. “Geddoe is my name… My name is Geddoe!” Becoming louder with each repetition, giddiness overtook him. In his excitement he quickly forgot the condition he was in and wide smile escaped his lips.

“Please Ma-am, my clothes, where are they?”

Honestly? I have no complaints regarding your post. Yes, the story is moving somewhat slowly, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. With every post, you reveal a bit more about your character’s history. Perhaps now it is time to start looking into his future, plowing a plot, and avoiding any potential retrograde that can result from a lack of interest.

. . .

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Geddoe. My name is Abella but, no doubt, I have told you that several times and you are bored with introductions. Still, one more won’t hurt.”

Her tone is sympathetic, but her gnarled fingers grasping at one another worriedly betray her fear of the man. However, at the mention of clothes, she perks up, as if remembering something.

“What? You are as I found you on the dirt road, in your underclothes with a wound in your side, a bump on your head, and nothing but a tattoo to remind you of who you are. I can get you some of my son’s old clothing, I suppose, but it will be tight around the waist. He was in the army, a big strong boy.” She says all this while withdrawing herself to a corner of the room with a set of shelves, going one by one through the drawers in a painful fashion, until she stumbles upon what she is looking for.

“He was thinking of getting a tattoo, also, but knew how his father and I felt about such things. To remind him of his brothers, he said. Not real brothers; the men he was fighting with. Ah, here we are!”—she turns around, olive green slacks and shirt resting in her arms.

((I can see your point about moving slowly, so I thought I would keep this post more short and to the point, hope that’s alright))

“I- I cannot thank you enough Miss Abella, for taking me in, for caring for me, and now for these clothes. I wish I had something to offer you in return for your gracious hospitality. Perhaps if you take me back to where you found me, there my be something of value I could repay you with.” His words still deliberately polite, but betraying unrest.

Carefully and politely taking the clothes from Abella, Geddoe began hurriedly dressing himself, pulling on first the slacks, and then cautiously the matching shirt, taking care not to move too quickly, for even in his new excited state, he was still injured. The fabric felt rough and unwelcome on his skin, but this was a nuisance he would have to get used to.
He was already moving towards the door before he remembered where he was:

“I beg your pardon Milady, are you ready to go now, or would you rather wait for the wind to die down?”

Although this is play by post, not every statement need be an implicit request for permission to proceed. If you want your character to go outside, do so! You have every right to impetuously—but for good reason, hopefully—introduce non-player characters and even drag player characters along for the ride. How else can a good story develop without people taking such sweeping steps, rather than walking on eggshells? Remember, this is RPA; the goal is for you to develop your storytelling ability, not for me to impress you by writing it as your proxy.

With that said, I’ll see if I can make the setting more interesting.

. . .

A frown develops on Abella’s face as she observes the bloody coating on Geddoa’s belly seep through the olive cloth of the pullover, staining it with a ruddy ichor. Nevertheless, she recovers, trotting ahead of him into the hall.

“Just being a good citizen, so think nothing of it. As to the other matter, a mild breeze never hurt anyone,” she responds.

At the end of a low, narrow hall lined with sepia-tone frames of family members, newspapers, and religious effigy is a heavy iron door by a coat rack of the same. Abella stops at fixtures, pulling a withered hat from the stand, securing it to her head with a long pin, and then a drab overcoat to rest upon her bony shoulders. From the trenchcoat pocket she produces a ring of numerous, clanking keys, one of which lends itself to unlocking the heavy door, then she throws it open and steps out into the brisk evening air.

“This way,” says she to Geddoe, gesturing for him to follow. “Excuse me while I shut the door behind us.”

Outside, the town is quiet, a potion of dust and dew hovering upon the clay pavement beset with ruts and miniscule rills. Brick and whitebeam structures toil heavenward from the promenade flanking the way, all of which would be less gloomy were people present, none of which manage to ascend more than three stories tall. Yet, most menacing a mar to this picturesque burb are the windows and doors, all behind iron bars. Accenting their ambience of imprisonment is the clink of Abella’s key securing her own dungeon-like door.

As Abella turns around and descends the stoop, her face pales, and she murmurs, “Imprimatur!” her hand instinctively lifting to an emblem on her coat sleeve. Her eyes flash to Geddoe, who has none.

Geddoe was startled with Abella’s sudden change in demeanour, her kind face seemed contorted with a streak of fear, and her shoulders slumped with a mix of oppression and hopelessness. There was little for Geddoe to say at this point, silenced by his innate politeness much less the fact that he could recall nothing of his surroundings, and was for all intents and purposes completely lost.
Taking a moment to himself whilst the kind old lady prepared herself to walk, Geddoe looked around him, into the quickly darkening city street

The wind whipped up the dust and earth particles that had previously been settled on the road and lifted it into a frenzy of flying debris, stinging at his eyes. The buildings stood, not grand, but maintaining their looming and threatening aura, their windows barred, no light protruding from a single pane. The sun had almost retreated behind one of the few hills visible in the distance but remained long enough to cast long shadows across much of the street, blanketing it in cool darkness. There was not another person in view as they stood on the low stoop, that evening. The atmosphere seemed to Geddoe, lonely and subdued.

“Shall we go M’lady?” he half-shouted, in an effort to be heard over the howling wind, an all to loud effort judging from the look of disgust shot his way. No more needed said, this was to be a silent journey.

They began to walk, and Geddoe kept pace with Abella, who maintained a good speed for someone of her age. She walked with purpose and direction, barely lifting her eyes to reorient herself as they strode through street after street, which looked exactly like the last, all iron bars and darkness.
The route was by all means uneventful, with a complete lack of life the for the whole duration, but now as they turned into another nameless and featureless replica of Abella’s own street, Geddoe felt eyes on his back.
Taking a glance behind him he could just make out the silhouettes of two figures who made no attempt to hide the fact that they were following the pair.
Feeling concerned and more than a little lost, he noticed that Abella was still oblivious to their presence, but decided against breaking the now well-established silence for fear of offending her. There was little he could do at this time but continue following the old woman who just refused to run out of stamina, as they wound themselves deeper into this seemingly infinite web.

Nicely done. You build on the tone I set, and push the imagery forward by adding a physical stimulus to the general mood. Now I’ll try to see if we can further dramatize the scene.

As part of my other duties, I’ve been reading over some major threads. I see you’ve made a few posts in the Realistic section; in particular, Life in Pariah. Why don’t you make another post in there and see if you can bring it back to life? The reason I say that is two-fold: firstly, because I would like to analyze your improvement outside of the academy, a before-and-after as it were; lastly, because you’ll be graduating in the near future, so it would be good to have you active in the community.

The challenge for your next post is to complete the scene.

. . .

It is either the howling wind threatening to overwhelm Geddeo’s voice or a more portentous noise lustily screeching its malice. Abella is afraid, but is one of those of frail mind whose fear manifests in palpitations, denial, and self-imposed ignorance—her ears block out the call of the black nightingale and her mind rejects the presence of the figures in close pursuit. In such bewildering straits, their journey takes them from the shadows of dilapidated tenements to streets lined by communal buildings, such as churches, schools, and prisons. No longer is it dirt beneath their feet, but gravel, and the crunching steps of many more than two stalkers hauntingly ascends to their ears.

At last, they stand before a large cathedral dominating the square, its gaunt gray surface laced with the spidery fissures of cracked stone; the roof is a hole, and its walls stand as barricades to a majesty long gone. Through the maw that once was a set of great door is the plainly visible interior, void of pews and the trappings of worship. No worship has happened here in a while.

“I’m not sure what you were expecting,” mutters Abella, “but here we are.”

“Just what is here?” asks Geddoe incredulously.

Abella winces, but otherwise disregards a howl that breaks the air just after Geddoe’s query. Dismissively, she responds, “Here is where you were found. I’m—I’m sorry.”

She turns to leave him there, perhaps imagining he will find his way. From the shadows surrounding the square emerge hidden figures who had been following them, as well as those who had not been so inconspicuous in their pursuit.

However, Geddoe’s hand on her shoulder stops Abella’s departure.

“What’s going on?”

His voices laces her soul with guilt, but all she knows to say is, “Please, let me go! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

((While I realise that this post is long and rambling, I also realise that there was too little said throughout the thread to construct a satisfying conclusion from, and ended up on a sort of tangent. I hope its not too bad though

EDIT- I know you told me never to edit my posts, however, somehow I managed to not copy a small yet important section into the post from the word processor, so, sorry for that.
))

“Please, let me go! I’ve done nothing wrong!” Abella’s voice rung painfully in Geddoe’s ears, full of panic and desperation. Her face was barely recognisable to him as they shared one last glance before she broke free from the hand on her shoulder and fled into the darkness in the opposite direction from which the pair had come from, the sound of heavy boots following her, a stampede of thundering steps rattling and echoing all around.

“Abella!” He called after her, but to no avail, only the looming cathedral’s aging walls and the ears of shadowy figures now forming a perimeter around him received his cry. Geddoe was held in a desperate panic, invisible hands kept him motionless, paralysed by confusion and terror. His pupils dilated, and sweat erupted from every pore.
Unable to control himself, his hands began shaking violently, and a single salty tear ran down his pale face and dripped from his bearded chin, landing between his trembling legs in silent defeat.

The encroaching crowd were now close enough to be clearly visible, their robed bodies forming an impregnable circle all around him, in each of their gloved hand was held a sickeningly curved dagger. Completely cloaked in identical black robes, peaked hoods casting shadows across their facial features, the crowd stood silently imprisoning him for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally one of them took two steps towards Geddoe breaking ranks with the others and lowing a gaze to him.

“Number 00-45-13-37.” Came a woman’s voice, although it was impossible to make out the lips that called out this string of numbers, which meant nothing to Geddoe.
“Codename- Geddoe.” The voice again boomed, silencing the once howling wind, leaving only the captive’s pained breaths to pierce the silence.
“For the transgressions of disserting the order, showing your unmasked face in a public place, and…” She paused for a moment, allowing the tension to fill every available space in the street. “For the theft of the personal property of your lord, specifically the children chosen to lead our mighty order in the event of the death of The Master, you are herby sentenced to death.”
With this the shrouded woman returned to the crowd, becoming invisible in the sea of identical bodies.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!” Blasted Geddoe, now on his knees. Screaming through a veil of tears.

Seemingly unfazed by this outburst, another broke forward from the circle slowly taking two steps, placing themselves directly in front of Geddoe.

"Geddoe, I understand that you do not remember your oath, so I shall remind you of the relevent section which you seemed to forget even before your unfortunate accident. You see, when you swore your oath to me, you relinquished control of your property, it seems to me that you did not realise that, this includes family. You see, your children hold within them a mighty power, laying dormant like a sleeping dragon. I saw this power, and I know that this power is required to lead our mighty order when I am no longer of this world. Living as your sons, would be two magnificent lives wasted. Goodbye Geddoe we shall not meet again."

The hooded man who had now finished speaking turned on his heels and slowly walked away, the gravel beneath his feet crumbling as if under immense force. He merely brushed shoulders with his subjects as he did so. His path led him in the direction that Abella had fled in earlier, and he too was soon engulfed in the shadows.

The third and final figure to emerge from behind the sea of bodies was a good deal shorter than the rest. Dressed all in black, glistening dagger in hand, he strode silently, closer to Geddoe than the others had come. Close enough that his young face became defined in the cool glow of the moon.

His throat too constricted with fear to speak, Geddoe could only stare into what seemed like his own eyes, a face so hauntingly similar to his own.

Geddoe remained in silent resignation, as the steady, black-gloved hand of his own son raised a blade and thrust it into his chest.

I wasn't asking you to immediately end things, but that particular scene. This is fine, too (unless you want it to go on or feel there is more for you to learn). There are some things I would like you to answer before I put you up for graduation review, tho'.

The key to these lessons is to improve your storytelling ability and make you efficient in interacting in role-play. Here are some ways to gauge that when you read back over this thread in an effort to answer the question:

* Is your character an interesting or shallow and boring study?
* How often were you responsible for a change in direction of the plot?
* Did your character frequently engage in dialogue?
* Did you introduce any NPCs?
* Did you interact with characters on your own or wait to be approached?
* If you removed your character from the story, would there be any major differences in the overall plot?