Backstory for a character for a new RP.
Oct. 15th, 2009 01:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sroniThe RP is called Fallout. It's basically post-nuclear apocolypse. It's rather interesting.
This is how I flesh out my characters. I write the basic backstory. ANd then I decide to sit down, and write out an indepth one. I've sped up the process by doing it in the same day.
This isn't my typical style, so I'd love to get feedback on it. And it took me in a direction I wasn't planning on going.
Stone Angel
Cattiebrie lived in what used to be the stable, back before the animals had mutated, and the horses had still existed, and the cows hadn't yet turned into brahmins.
Master's house was truly a beautiful work of art-or it would have been if it wasn't run down- with the dense spanish moss draping heavily from the large elm trees, the ground marshy and squishing under feet, the air thrumming with bugs. The statuesque house rising out of the murk and the grays and the greens, the white antebellum mansion prominent among the colors and features of the landscape.
But the beautiful old house had it's flaws. It had a good structure, and it was made out of cypress- the only wood that termites didn't eat. It had been built to last. But it still had it's cracks and it's flaws, and nothing they could do would ever make the mansion what it used to be.
In some ways, Cattiebrie related to the house. Growing up as a slave, she got used to hearing people talk about her as though she weren't there, and one of the remarks she'd heard was that it was a pity she'd been given the face of an angel, and yet to be so strange and stupid.
She supposed she couldn't really blame them for their comments.
Cattiebrie didn’t say her first word until she was nine.
Or at least, she thinks she was nine. She can’t be sure of that. No one really cared enough to tell her how old she was or when her birthday was. Birthdays weren’t for slaves. They were only for Master and Master’s wife, and Master’s family.
Some kid’s first words were “Mama”. In ages past, kids would say “flower” or “puppy” or some other such word.
But that time had passed long ago.
Cattiebrie had long since lost the innocence that comes from being a child, if indeed she’d ever possessed it. It could be argued that she had never truly been a child.
Her first word was actually two words. “Yes, ma’am.”
That which had inspired the words had been a fist to the cheek. It wasn’t the first hit she’d ever received. She’d been on the receiving end of strikes and kicks whenever she was inept or clumsy or was in the way. After a few disastrous attempts to dodge and the punishments that ensued, she’d learned that trying to evade the impending pain was a bad idea.
No, it hadn’t been the first time she’d been struck. But it had been the first time the fist had been accompanied with a command to speak.
She hadn’t not spoken out of a lack of intelligence or the inability to do so. No, it had been the hope that by keeping her mouth shut, she might be able to evade notice.
Yeah.
Right.
Fun hope. Too bad it didn’t work.
Idiot.
Master’s wife seemed to take special, vicious pleasure in punishing Cattiebrie.
It wasn’t until Cattiebrie was seventeen that she got an idea of why that might be so. She was doing the dishes- Master’s wife had long since banished her from public serving, claiming that Cattiebre was too inept to be allowed to do work that someone might see, but the basement, cellar and kitchen work was good enough for her- when she was shocked to receive an appreciative slap on the butt accompanied by a pinch and wet lips on her neck, while words riding on stale breath pronounced her to be a pretty piece of meat, just as her mother had been.
It was the first time she'd truly regretted being pretty.
What happened afterwards she refused to let her memory go back to- it was bad enough that it attacked her in nightmares. She would not let her conscious mind dwell on it.
She hadn’t fought. To fight could easily mean her death.
Neither had she cried. Her tears had long since ceased to flow.
She had the face of an angel, and she'd turned to stone long ago.
If she’d still retained her innocence before, it was lost that night on a cold kitchen floor. She’d fled as soon as it was safe to move, safe to leave, standing in the cold rain until her clothes and hair were drenched, until her skin was cold and clammy, until her body was shaking and her teeth were chattering, and still, she stood.
She would have stood out there even longer if Master’s wife hadn’t stormed outside, hurling accusations of Cattiebrie luring the other woman’s husband away from his wife and to herself, just like Cattiebrie’s mother- the second mention of Cattiebrie’s mother in a lifetime of never hearing a word about the woman.
Cattiebrie had stood mute, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if she should defend herself or stay quiet.
Master’s wife moved, a flash of silver in her hand, and Cattiebrie’s face erupted in a streak of flaming pain streaking down the side of her face, blood trickling it’s way down her neck, mingling with the rain and staining her shirt.
Cattiebrie’s memory of that night stops there, and it doesn’t pick up again until a few weeks later. She wished that her memory could have decided to stop a few hours earlier, but no amount of wishing could change it.
She started to wear her hair down in her face, and stopped washing it altogether, so it hung in greasy clumps, hiding the unruined half of her face. She stopped washing her face. She did everything she could to hide her looks.
She only had half the face of an angel- but half is enough.
She started dreaming of freedom and planning her escape.
After six long years, six years of going over her plan every night to figure out where it needed to change, what she needed to do, she finally got the chance to escape.
She took it.
For a tracker to find someone, they follow footprints. She walked on the rocky parts until she got to a tree, and climbed the tree, traveling from tree to tree to tree. She fell out a few times, and was scraped and bruised in more places than she could count by the end of it.
Once she reached the river, she walked in murky, brackish water to hide her tracks.
It worked.
She got away.
And the stone angel started to learn to fly.
END
Yes, the title is a title for an actual book. I stole it.
This is how I flesh out my characters. I write the basic backstory. ANd then I decide to sit down, and write out an indepth one. I've sped up the process by doing it in the same day.
This isn't my typical style, so I'd love to get feedback on it. And it took me in a direction I wasn't planning on going.
Stone Angel
Cattiebrie lived in what used to be the stable, back before the animals had mutated, and the horses had still existed, and the cows hadn't yet turned into brahmins.
Master's house was truly a beautiful work of art-or it would have been if it wasn't run down- with the dense spanish moss draping heavily from the large elm trees, the ground marshy and squishing under feet, the air thrumming with bugs. The statuesque house rising out of the murk and the grays and the greens, the white antebellum mansion prominent among the colors and features of the landscape.
But the beautiful old house had it's flaws. It had a good structure, and it was made out of cypress- the only wood that termites didn't eat. It had been built to last. But it still had it's cracks and it's flaws, and nothing they could do would ever make the mansion what it used to be.
In some ways, Cattiebrie related to the house. Growing up as a slave, she got used to hearing people talk about her as though she weren't there, and one of the remarks she'd heard was that it was a pity she'd been given the face of an angel, and yet to be so strange and stupid.
She supposed she couldn't really blame them for their comments.
Cattiebrie didn’t say her first word until she was nine.
Or at least, she thinks she was nine. She can’t be sure of that. No one really cared enough to tell her how old she was or when her birthday was. Birthdays weren’t for slaves. They were only for Master and Master’s wife, and Master’s family.
Some kid’s first words were “Mama”. In ages past, kids would say “flower” or “puppy” or some other such word.
But that time had passed long ago.
Cattiebrie had long since lost the innocence that comes from being a child, if indeed she’d ever possessed it. It could be argued that she had never truly been a child.
Her first word was actually two words. “Yes, ma’am.”
That which had inspired the words had been a fist to the cheek. It wasn’t the first hit she’d ever received. She’d been on the receiving end of strikes and kicks whenever she was inept or clumsy or was in the way. After a few disastrous attempts to dodge and the punishments that ensued, she’d learned that trying to evade the impending pain was a bad idea.
No, it hadn’t been the first time she’d been struck. But it had been the first time the fist had been accompanied with a command to speak.
She hadn’t not spoken out of a lack of intelligence or the inability to do so. No, it had been the hope that by keeping her mouth shut, she might be able to evade notice.
Yeah.
Right.
Fun hope. Too bad it didn’t work.
Idiot.
Master’s wife seemed to take special, vicious pleasure in punishing Cattiebrie.
It wasn’t until Cattiebrie was seventeen that she got an idea of why that might be so. She was doing the dishes- Master’s wife had long since banished her from public serving, claiming that Cattiebre was too inept to be allowed to do work that someone might see, but the basement, cellar and kitchen work was good enough for her- when she was shocked to receive an appreciative slap on the butt accompanied by a pinch and wet lips on her neck, while words riding on stale breath pronounced her to be a pretty piece of meat, just as her mother had been.
It was the first time she'd truly regretted being pretty.
What happened afterwards she refused to let her memory go back to- it was bad enough that it attacked her in nightmares. She would not let her conscious mind dwell on it.
She hadn’t fought. To fight could easily mean her death.
Neither had she cried. Her tears had long since ceased to flow.
She had the face of an angel, and she'd turned to stone long ago.
If she’d still retained her innocence before, it was lost that night on a cold kitchen floor. She’d fled as soon as it was safe to move, safe to leave, standing in the cold rain until her clothes and hair were drenched, until her skin was cold and clammy, until her body was shaking and her teeth were chattering, and still, she stood.
She would have stood out there even longer if Master’s wife hadn’t stormed outside, hurling accusations of Cattiebrie luring the other woman’s husband away from his wife and to herself, just like Cattiebrie’s mother- the second mention of Cattiebrie’s mother in a lifetime of never hearing a word about the woman.
Cattiebrie had stood mute, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if she should defend herself or stay quiet.
Master’s wife moved, a flash of silver in her hand, and Cattiebrie’s face erupted in a streak of flaming pain streaking down the side of her face, blood trickling it’s way down her neck, mingling with the rain and staining her shirt.
Cattiebrie’s memory of that night stops there, and it doesn’t pick up again until a few weeks later. She wished that her memory could have decided to stop a few hours earlier, but no amount of wishing could change it.
She started to wear her hair down in her face, and stopped washing it altogether, so it hung in greasy clumps, hiding the unruined half of her face. She stopped washing her face. She did everything she could to hide her looks.
She only had half the face of an angel- but half is enough.
She started dreaming of freedom and planning her escape.
After six long years, six years of going over her plan every night to figure out where it needed to change, what she needed to do, she finally got the chance to escape.
She took it.
For a tracker to find someone, they follow footprints. She walked on the rocky parts until she got to a tree, and climbed the tree, traveling from tree to tree to tree. She fell out a few times, and was scraped and bruised in more places than she could count by the end of it.
Once she reached the river, she walked in murky, brackish water to hide her tracks.
It worked.
She got away.
And the stone angel started to learn to fly.
END
Yes, the title is a title for an actual book. I stole it.
