Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Iliana, Jun 8, 2012.


    All of the Writing Exercises have been going great. You all read the short paragraphs given in the prompts, read what you have to post about, and just post freely! That's some damn good freelance writing write there guys! But this one is going to be a little different. Much like Grumpy's Picture Challenges, pictures help describe a scene vividly. And, like Kitti's Plot Challanges, spawning a character on the top of your head is very much like writing a post out the top of your head.

    But what happens if we combine all three of those attributes into one?

    In a lot of rps in Iwaku today, we find people searching for images of characters that fully describe them. When asked for an 'Appearance' in character sheets, most people just put a picture there. Staying along with character sheets, we also ask for a General History of the character. We want to know what they've been through, what their past wads like, any important thing that happened leading up to the plot and such. This exercise is the same way! Given a picture, I want to see what comes out the top of your head as a history or explanation to this character! See what your imaginations cook up!

    Your Job Is To: Describe this character's life and History, coming up with your own plot.

    FOR GIRLS (open)

    FOR GUYS (open)

    Remember: Length does not matter! Detail does!

    Lastly, and most importantly, Have fun with this! :D
  2. Re: Character Exercise: History!

    This is for the guy... for this exercise, I will be referencing a few scenes in his past in first person.

    It's been ten years...ten years since I was taken away from my family. I can remember it as if it were ten seconds ago...
    Fire...there was a great fire that day. We tried our hardest to put it out...but it came to life so suddenly...
    People were screaming all around me- my sister, just barely two years old;
    My father, as the fire licked at his skin while my mother tried to put out the flame.
    Lots of people were screaming...but not me. I was just standing there, in the midst of the flame.
    I knew what caused it...I knew because the creature was now gliding down to fetch me...
    To take me away forever... a dragon called Vortusk...the dragon of the Society.

    Life at the Society was bleak...and painful. Everyday since I had arrived, I was placed in pools of acid like water that bit and burned my flesh.
    After that, I was sent to a room where they scraped the dead skin from your body- every time I would leave bloody and sore.
    It was easier a bit after that...But what if you did something wrong? Once I back talked a man who was close to the leader...
    I was thrown into a prison like cell and chained to a wall. The executioner came in with a box of things...
    The first was hot needles which he used to carve out my crime on my chest- Speaking when not Spoken to.
    Second came a whip- twenty lashes on each of my limbs and then ten across my stomach...I was thankful to not have anything done to my back.
    Last was the worse thing to ever imagine...He had some sort of beetles that burrowed into your flesh, leaving behind an acidic residue that burn your flesh, like it was melting you inside and out.
    Five of these things he let burrow into me...only one came out. Yes, I can feel them still chewing at my flesh...all these years, they've been under my skin, and each day I almost forget they are there.

    After about three years, I was back in good graces. The man I had wronged against took me on as a Squire, and now I am part of his Guard, as he became leader when the elder died.
    At first I had been beaten every other day, for almost a year- he would always tell me it was a reminder that he remembers my crime, and that I should too.
    The worst beating I had ever received was being tossed into the Warg den- When they retrieved me three hours after being thrown in, they thought I was going to die;
    My thigh was almost ripped clean off the bone, in fact, to the point that they could see the artery there pulsing. My left arm was in similar condition, but at the shoulder.
    The skin above my ribs was mauled from claws...but everything else was barely even scratched. I spent two weeks in the Medics before I was sent back to that man.
    He was kinder to me after the Wargs- told me I was forgiven and that I was ever in his graces as long as I stayed a good boy. I never let him down.

    Today is my sixteenth birthday...as a present, my leader gave me an ear clipping...a ruby stud the size of one of the beetles that are still within me.
    When he gave me this...I smiled and asked him...asked him for one thing...

    "...Can I go home now?"

    I usually don't like making a history for someone, because this is what always happens... Except for one character who went to a war base just to end up being a doctor...
    Anyways, I hope I passed or did well on this exercise and I had some fun writing this. I'm Wolfxfox22, aka Lukie Lynne, and thank you.
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  3. Re: Character Exercise: History!

    ((Lady, I dub thee Lizbeth.))

    Lizbeth sat, undisturbed, at the base of a large oak tree that she'd been playing under since childhood. Once tall and majestic to her young self, the tree now seemed withered and old, and bore a great 'x' through the middle of its trunk. She glanced up at it, but continued to clean the swords sitting in her lap. It was nice to come here and think, to sift through old memories like they were picture books. For a moment, Lizbeth paused in her work, closed her eyes, and remembered.

    She was three. Glinting swords and fast-moving men. Mother held her. The smell of grass. Laughter. Shouting. Mother's silk sleeve.

    She was five. Father was carrying her on his back, between his sheathed twin swords. Mother was near; she did not have twin swords or any weapon at all- instead, she held the hand of the Older Brother. They waded through a sea of tall grass together, the sun shining above, several cotton-white clouds hanging like drying laundry. Father set her down beneath an oak tree while he and the Older Brother distanced themselves from her and mother. The men faced each other; brother readied his wooden sword while father prepared his own wooden swords, the glittering katanas remaining tethered to his back. They sparred. Lizbeth watched in envy, but her mother's soft stories soothed her. "One day, Lizbeth."

    She was nine. They still sat by the tree, her and mother, as Older Brother and father sparred- this time, with katanas made of metal, not wood. Lizbeth complained to her mother about Older Brother's slow recovery speed, his lead arm, the way he lumbered about the tall grass, but mother only smiled. One day, she said quietly. One day. Lizbeth pouted.

    She was twelve. Older Brother still practiced with father, and she and mother still sat by the oak, watching, talking. Today was quieter, though. The wind swished through the grass, and father looked like he had swallowed a rock. Older Brother looked pained as well, but his katanas were swifter now than they had ever been. After they were finished sparring, the women stood and enveloped Older Brother. After a moment, father did as well. "We'll miss you, son. Fight bravely. Make us proud," father said. "Be safe. Write often," mother wept. "Good luck," Lizbeth whispered, although she wished she were in his place, leaving to fight for something bigger than herself. Her hand was faster than Older Brother's; her katanas struck truer, sharper, and cleaner than his. Older Brother knew this. He hugged her. "One day," he said.

    She was fifteen. The oak was silent today. No laughter. No clink of swords. Lizbeth and her father made their way to the tree, he carrying two swords; grass whispered around them, gossiping. Her father didn't make it to the tree; he sunk to the ground, sitting on his knees. His eyes looked at the dirt and stayed there, the katanas resting in his hands as if he were offering them to someone. She kneeled by him, concerned, but he did not notice her. They sat there for a long time, until he exploded up and charged at the oak, swords flashing in his hands. One slash, and another; the tree was now marked by an angry 'x'. He sunk back and she held him, both crying softly. "Why is he gone," father said, and it was all she could do to reply, "I don't know." She gently took the swords from her father's hands and placed them at the base of the tree, but he picked them up and placed them in her hands. "Take care of them," he said. "Your brother would have wanted you to have them." She smiled sadly- this was something she'd been waiting for her whole life, and yet something that she'd never wanted to happen. Fate was cruel. Still, Lizbeth could feel the grass sigh, and above her the oak tree rustled, as if Older Brother were up there shaking the branches to console her. "We'll be alright, father."

    "One day."

    ((Haha, that's probably the most dramatic thing I've ever written. Hope it was alright regardless of the cheesiness :} ))

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  4. Re: Character Exercise: History!

    This is for the girl. And I hope I'm not the only person that's reminded of Alice from Alice In Wonderland by this picture. But with short hair. Like, badass fighter Alice. Like, Saya from Blood + and Alice mixed. But this is just my weirdness. And I'm probbably not right at all. 

    Rainbow, electric feel. 


    I'll give it a shot. Get ready for length.

    Man and technology have an interesting relationship. Man is always creating, updating, improving and discovering new and exciting ways for people to use and manipulate technology. It has always been an unhealthy obsession

    At least, it was us humans who made it unhealthy in the first place.

     However, is there not similarities between the human brain and a computer? Computing, obtaining information and putting it out.

    We are demanding, impatient creatures. Our weekness's. What cripples us and makes up repent in anger, forcing the process of development go faster than it should, forcing the horse's muzzle to water, ignoring the reluctance whines.

    And due to the growth of knowledge technology itself can handle, man began to feign superiority in intelligence.

    And then  civilization started to crumble.

    Because along with the obsession  of technology, what else joined that? Robots. Atrifical humans. Metal, computer chips. What is the harm if it does not breath and have organs as we do?

    But we didn't realize, that it could have greater harm, because it's own type of life and living did not rely on air or a beating heart.
    Electricity for blood instead of blood itself.

    We ignored the signs of threat, being the igorant creatures we are.

    Robots had wiped out nearly the entire human population. In small increments, so not as to bring attention to themselves so easily. They served humans, that was their job. Their was no need for them to have a job themselves, what good was money to a robot? What would it need to buy, food, water?

    Again, things they didn't have to rely on.

    And there were people who speculated on robot's ability to have emotions. Some people became romantically interested in their robots. But robots were not programmed to have emotions, if they were able to have anger, they could outsource it in destructive ways. Obvious, and we humans can usually take care of obvious. Emotions, however, did not hold them back either.

    We thought it was malfuctions at first. We'd develop some new software and install it into our man made slaves. Things went back to being just as smooth. We considered then human.

    Our trust made us blind. And they had won.

    But not entirely. 

    My true name, I remember. It lies in my memories, as well as my heart. And whenever I feel ready, the time will come when my name will be known.

    There were a couple hundred that the robots hadn't managed to exterminate. They hid anywhere they could, because any weapons were no match. We had made them quite indestructible.  Scavenge for food, and when none was found, simply went without. The strong ones, the ones that were the hope of mankind.

    I was one of them. I could run and hide, but there came the day when that wasn't acceptable anymore, and I had decided to take it upon myself to try to save what was left of the human population, to rebuild society, to rebuild the world. 

    And here I am, fighting endlessly.

    Robots exterminated other robots just as easily, if they did not meet expectations. Finding one in a dumpster, I'd dismembered the body, and once I'd gotten the small computer chip that was their brain, I stuck only half of it into my own, operating on myself. 

    I had quickly obtained a robotic like appearance. My eyed an Ivey blue color, pupils dialated like black, small dark dots. Yet I kept my hair, as well as my clothes. 

    I am half human, half robot. I can feel, I have a beating heart, but the blood is mixed with electricity. When I obtain information, I cannot simply hold onto it automatically, I have to want to. 

    And as I roam the streets in search of the head of the artificial intelligence, I think.

    There are some left out there.
    Human civilization has a fight.
    And before, I was strong, bur now when battle presents itself, backing down is not an option.

    There will be sucsess. No matter what the cost.
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  5. Re: Character Exercise: History!

    very scar and mark on her body told a story. Some, she was fond of telling; others, not so much. Her favourite had to be the one behind the spots on the palm of her hands. They were small, right at the base of each finger where joint met joint. The skin there was rough, calloused, but the spots themselves maintained a pale, scar-like quality. She wasn't always this way, the story would often begin. Shouts and clamours for more drinks could be heard as she spoke, knowing smiles on the faces of her closest companions. Sometimes she would embellish the story, adding little details that were just plausible enough to possibly be true, however unlikely. Other times, she'd stick to the facts. It still sounded fantastical, and even she sometimes had a hard time believing it was true. Her life had been one amazing adventure after another, most of the time through no direct fault of her own. She had become known throughout the land as its Champion, protector of the innocent, purveyor of justice, the voice of the People.

    No matter what version of the story she told, some things never changed. She had been the smallest of her page-group, and one of only three girls. The bigger, older, meaner boys had already claimed the best squires to shadow, bullying their way to success. The other two girls had been feeling particularly picked on, and were ready to quit.

    "There's no point!" they wailed. "We'll never be respected."

    But she hadn't been willing to concede. She awoke two hours before sunrise, before the other pages were required to get up and begin their chores. She spent those two hours carrying filled buckets of water, and wrestling with the rams till her hands bled and her body was bruised. She often fell asleep during lessons, earning several pages of rewrites in every subject. That was expected to a point, but perhaps not to the extent she allowed. One of the professors took her aside and asked if anything was wrong.

    "No," she said. They both knew it was a lie, eyeing her bandaged palms and fingers simultaneously. The codes of pagedom were not to be broken; had she said anything, it would've just been worse. She would have been ostracised, and even the pages that were her friends would turn their backs. For months, she continued her private training, eventually moving from wrestling to swordplay. The professor that had took her aside quietly and secretly supported her, leaving books on various sword styles and techniques under her pillow. He knew the silent code well; rumour at the castle had it he was a failed squire, never passing the test into knighthood, choosing instead to become a scholar.

    The summer months came, and her training increased. The shorter nights and longer days meant she had less sleep, having to get up even earlier than before to avoid being seen. She practised with her sword strokes until even her callouses bled, ripping the skin. Day after sweltering day, she practised, never giving her torn hands the time to heal.

    She always stopped her story here, to take a drink, get up and stretch, or use the lavatory. It kept her audience interested; what would happen next? Why this story, above all the others? She would take her time, leisurely returning to her seat, allowing the silence to tick on just long enough before continuing. Where was she? she'd pretend to wonder, often intentionally starting too far back until someone shouted a correction. Ah yes, she'd then say. The summer.

    It was a "free swim" day -- one of the few days the pages were able to spend without the restriction of chores and classes. She and the other girls had opted not to swim. Pinches and smacks were enough out of the water, thank you! Instead, they sat under the shade of a nearby tree, enjoying the cool breeze wafting from the lake.

    That's when Zeke decided to butt in. His stocky, fourteen-year-old frame blotted out the sun, and the girls flinched at the intrusion. Everyone waited with bated breath. It was no secret that Zeke was jealous of the girls; he had not been accepted as a squire for three and a half years now, and was the oldest page in the group. He and his father were also 'old-fashioned' -- a nice term that essentially meant they thought women were inferior to men and had no place among the Royal Knights.

    He had tried to force the smallest of the girls, Anna, to swim, grabbing her arm. He attempted to drag Anna into the water, daring any one to stop him.

    So she had grabbed his arm. "Let Anna go," she had demanded, her heart pounding in her ears. Zeke was stunned for a brief moment. Then he smiled, a slow, sickening smile; he dropped Anna's hand and grabbed her's by the bandages. "You gonna do somethin' about it?" he leered at her, tugging on the bandages so hard they ripped from her hands, taking the half-healed scabs with them. Her hands were bleeding freely, and Zeke laughed in derision when she cringed.

    Anger blinded her. She drew her fist back and with as much strength as she could muster, punched him in the face. With an expression of surprise rather than pain, Zeke went down, hitting the grassy knoll with a dull thud. His surprised was short lived though, and he came after her at full strength, his embarrassment at being knocked on his arse -- by a girl no less -- evident. He snarled at her, swinging his fists wildly. She dodged most of them, but caught the last on the chin. She staggered, and Zeke played dirty. He grabbed her by the hair, attempting to pull her forward. Big mistake. She allowed herself to pitch forward, using her momentum to punch him square between the legs. Zeke howled, the other pages hooted, and the girls gasped. She stood over the older boy, her hands clenched into fists, blood dripping from between her fingers. She punched Zeke in the face: left fist. Right fist. Left fist. Right. Left. Right. Left, right, left, right, leftrightleftrightleftrightleft-----

    It was Anna who stopped her, who grabbed her bloody fist. Her blood and Zeke's blood mingled, and the older boy lay on the ground whimpering and covering his face. She spat on the ground, much to Anna's obvious disapproval. "Get out," she told Zeke. "You'll never be a knight. You're not even worthy to be a page."

    And Zeke left; he ran, sobbing, down to the Castle. Anna had led her to the stables, wrapping her hands in the bandages they used for the horses' legs. When the pages returned to the Castle, no one said anything about Zeke; his room was bare, his space in the dining hall was empty, and by the end of the week there was another page in his place. By then, she had earned the respect of not just her page-group, but the older squires and even some of the knights, who remembered what their own page training had been like.

    It was this day, she'd conclude, that let her become a knight. Even though she had faced more dangers like invading bandits (she lifted up her almost shoulder-length hair to reveal a scar running down from the side of her right ear to her neck), insane sorcerers (she held up her blackened left hand), and even [/ALIGN]
    [ALIGN=justify]a dragon (she pointed to the burn scar on her right arm), it was this day of which she was most proud. She held up her hands, the soft, white scar tissue visible under the callouses and the magic.

    More, they'd clamour. Tell us another!
    Some other night, she'd tell them.
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  6. Re: Character Exercise: History!

    (I'll post for the guy, my writing skill has gotten a bit rusty and stale :/so don't blame me if its bland and boring D:<. On that note allow me to get on with the post. >.>)

    Quick Bio.
    Name: Il'aklir Dazenza
    Age: 18
    Race: human/mage
    Tier: archai.

    Terms in post: Seneri - self energy, Dokeri - destroying energy, Guleri - Protection energy, Archai - highest mage tier, lurhai upper tier mage, Vanhai - normal tier mage, hulhai - low tier mage.

    Landing on his backside Il shouted loudly, the force of the blot of lightning took him by surprise. Il brushed his shaggy hair from his eyes, shaking his head and refocusing his pale eyes up at the one who'd knocked him on his backside.
    "Get up boy, training isn't finished yet, Not untill you can block that lighting bolt and redirect it. So get your lazy cheeseburger eating, slow thinking, minor mage backside up off the floor and lets run the drill one more god-damned time." Il leered at his teacher, professor Orci had always been harsh on him but with good reason, Scrambling to his feet Il reset his stance, focusing those pale cold almost dead eyes on Orci. 'Left hand forwards, right foot back. Focus weight on right foot, take lighting in through left hand conert to own energy and respond with double force bolt.' The pattern wa simple enough but the execution woud be the devil. Curling his knuckles aroudn on his right hand he left his left palm open. Slow breaths, fast thoughts. Twisting his right hand he braced himself, he never fully prepared for the sheer force of near pure energy's impact.

    Orci launched a strong lightning bolt again from his right hand sending it surging at Il's core. The wind whistled past the bolt at Il sending his hair billowing out and played like a shoddily spun spider web. Shifting his left hand he brought it infront of him, opened his Seneri pathways and let the lighting in, as the bolt travelled up his arm the force began to knock him back a little but as it flowed in, The vicious Dokeri, became part of his own seneri. Channelling the energy over his shoulders across the nape of his neck the senrai within him shone a light ice blue as it leeched out of him. He wasn't just absorbing the energy he was converting and adding to it. By the time the senrai reached his right arm it was almost four-times the force. As the dokeri finished being converted to seneri, Il twisted his right hand thrusting it forwards, with a snap the pent up seneri in his right arm was expeloled in a savage blast of lightning dokeri. As the bolt flew across the grount at the professor it tor the tiles off of the floor, Orci put up a six layer guleri to withstand the shock of the blast.

    "Need any more proof that your an Archai? You took a thirteenth tier dokeri blast of pure lightning and rose it to a fifty-second tier dokeri lighting wave." An Archai the highest level of mage, throughout the whole history of hak'avili there had only ever been thirty two Archai, and Il was one of them, actually he was the thirty third. His seneri off the charts, but his control over it due to his young age sill elementary, he could only respond to attacks, not create his own, though his responses were several times more devastating than the original. Orci sompled as he lead Il out of the training hall."I still dont believe an eighteen year old managed to pull off a tier fifty-two technique. though i suppose the archai's power is untold." Despite being one of the rarest classes of mage, he hated it. Utterly loathed it, mostly for the fact that nothing he did was ever his hard work. People just chalked it up to his "natural talent". Every thing he didwas expected of him. He never impressed anyone. He balled his fist, something within him was stirring, his seneri burst forth from his right arm like a sword of pure dokeri. Orci grew wide eyed, and took several steps back leaving il in the centre of the room. "That's..That's a tier one hundred technique. Only the grand masters are supposed to be able to have enough seneri to prefrom that tech." Il was now both shocked and slightly in awe. The blade of dokeri was stabilized from the end of his right arm, extrudeing itself from his knuckles.

    "A tier one-hundred technique? This blade of dokeri?"
    Il jammed the blade into the wall, but was met with no resistance, he was cutting through almost four feet of solid granite with no effort. His eyes gre wide at the amount of ease he found himself useing this technique with. In thoae pale eyes something ignited, a spark, a newly kindled flame, a drop of water in a pool. It didn't matter what it was called something had brought itself back to life. Il halted the seneri flow to his right arm and the blade turned itself off. "That was awe-"
    "That was not awesome, that now means that no person here is qualified to teach you. You have to go train with the grand masters themselves." "Why?" "The law, any student who learns a technique tier seventy or above, must train with the grand masters alone. It's been fun Il but now you've got to train with those better than me." Orci's gaze fell to the floor as he trudged off alone out of the training room leaveing Il alone with his thoughts. He's utilized a teir one hundred technique. Him, the mage who couldn't attack on his won, had instinctually activated a tier one-hundred dokeri technique. Flexing his fingers Il still couldn't believe it.

    Il glanced around the room, the trashed splintered floor, the cracked broken tiles, if not for the open ceiling the room would have been filled with dust too. Though mages needed sunlight as an alternative seneri source. Il flexed his fingers and slid his hand to the sword at his waist, he'd never need it, but learning how to fight without his magic was always preferable to relying solely on his magical skill. Il dragged his mind across the emotions he had fet, and all that he felt when he activated that technique was aggravation, angst, and annoyance. He hated something and that pushed him to gain more skill, now that he liked it he simply had to try and reproduce the results. without the emotional trigger, the shortest route for him was to find the emotion and replicate his seneri flow, from there it was easy to reproduce. Though now he couldn't remember everything, small ammounts of granit edust flew up into the smoky plumes of the room, floating out through the roof, however melted granite smelled worse than rotten eggs in summer being boiled. I wa just not a nice smell, and it was throwing off his learning curve. Slamming his hand into the door he felt another surge of rage and feltthe blade willing itself to reappear, but Il held it back.

    ~Three days later~

    Leaveing for the grandmasters temple was the hardest thing he'd had to do to date. The way was treacherous, and all his friends-if he could clal them that-were in that school. Still he soldiered on, if he had to train under the best to become a mage he would, nothign wouldstop him, not rocky crags with jagged sheer drops, not thundering blizzards with hailstones the size of a man's fist. Not the desert laied bare of all life, and so dry that even the clouds evaporated. Still his quest was headed for the grand-mage temple. If he could make it he would have been the youngest mage to ever be invited to the temple. His journey to the temple would take him far afeild, over wide places and large expanses. He would meet people who both loved and feared mages. He might even find love on the way. But this is just a snipped of his history, the day he discovered how poerful he truely was.

    ( Pass or fail. I had fun writing this :D, and now have an urge to start a Rp based around this idea >.>;;)