Working out a character

Fallen London
1

I’m having trouble working out a character, so I thought I’d make a thread to help me sort it. You may join if you wish, just please excuse my rambling OOC commentary. It will probably range from this, that, and the other thing. :)

&quotWhy, how droll! I simply must…&quot

&quotAnd /really/ did you see the…&quot

Dorian walked past them with zis notebook in hand. The twitchy scribble-scrabble of pen sounded in contrast to the slow lilt of lordly banter inside the ballroom. Or those who fancied themselves lords. Ze ran a thumb over its roughened surface and contemplated what to write of Master Chatterbox.

&quot–I see you’re recording.&quot Right at zis elbow was Master Cha–Davis MacAurthur, himself. The man stood a portly wall, with custom waistcoat made from the latest trending and most dangerous of animals. Perhaps he’d killed it himself. It did not fit his person well, Dorian noted, but could not write down. &quotJolly good, jolly good. Why, I’m considered the epitome of social trends, the paragon of hah! 'Neath cigars. It’s /my/ visage on those boxes, you know…it’s only natural my gentle public would wish to know what I’m about when I’m not off adventuring…&quot

Dorian added a checkmark near, ‘Getting drunk and bashed with the Stags’ and continued to pretend to write. The checkmark was, of course, mental.

…not that zis client wasn’t.

Okay, that would not do. Ze focused again on what the client was saying–which would be easier if not for the faux-English tones. No worse than the pampered debutante, but she had the excuse of inexperience.

&quotSo dull,&quot ze muttered, and Cha–MacAurthur squinted at zim. The man’s squint resembled a wrinkled, chubby baby’s though he was only–if rumor was correct–fourty-two.

&quot/Excuse/ me?&quot

&quotAh–ah, the other people here.&quot Dorian flicked on a smile. Like nearly everyone in the Fallen City, ze’d learned to lie, to twist meaning and accordingly MacAurthur examined him for some time, for any hint of…

…eventually, the man’s squinting eyes cleared, and he laid a beefy hand on the author’s shoulder. &quotYou’ll get there, my b–uh,&quot a second, squinting look during which MacAurthur removed his hand, and rubbed at the palm of it. As though clearing an invisible grease. &quot–/fellow/. Why, you’re already invited to parties. There was that–thing with the Duchess too, wasn’t there?&quot …a sideways look. &quot/If/ I may be so bold. If I may, of course. Hah! Of course I may! I’m Davis bloody MacAurthur!&quot
edited by dorianfoster on 4/29/2014

2

Davis /bloody/ MacAurthur. Red as the devil’s glowing eyes, that name incited rage. No, Dorian reflected. Not rage…it was more the kindling of a hot fire of inspiration, the quickened…

…okay, rage. But not a /lasting/ rage, not if ze could help it. No, better to commit the fire to paper, to let the words burn the page instead of zis mind.

It was that thought that had Dorian stopping at the entrance to zis townhouse. He paused just long enough to arrange his thoughts before slipping the key into the lock and heading inside.

A rubbery tentacle greeted zim, and ze wrapped zis finger around it, and gave it a tug. &quotMacAurthur,&quot ze said, attempting to explain zis temper and the heat of zis skin. A sympathetic blooping followed zis words. &quotSomeone you’ll never meet, if I can help it.&quot Despite the friendly touch, zis words remained angry.

Thiirii-oo ooo thiis ssrhi–

&quot…you’re right. You’re right. Game of chess?&quot

Vrhtti ssoori oofouur oorossi ooo ii-ooo.

Shoulder to shoulder, ze followed the rubbery into the townhouse. Theirs was a close friendship–a mutual curiosity bordering on the scandalous. To someone walking in, ze would have a difficult time explaining the creature living there, or the odd trance the bubbling sounds put zim into, left zim staring off into space. So unusual.

It’s what drew zim to…him. Her. Them. Though ze was sure the rubbery had romantic attachments. The young rubbery performer at the theatre, for one. They shared some form of bond, though ze did not mind so long as–

&quotWords. Speak them,&quot ze prompted, before zis mind spun out of control. The very…sound of the Londonese ‘word’'s harsh syllables burned in Dorian’s mind, as he bent to set up the chess set. Tentacles waved towards zim, and the two sat down.

…and soon, Dorian was lost to the trance of the sound of a burbling stream while they played. Burbles that covered, then mixed with the creative rage from earlier.

Very soon, ze would write it all down. Expel it into paper.

The rubbery moved its pawn.

Dorian contemplated the knight. And Knights, of whom ze would write of.

OOC: Exploring here mental instability, responses to sounds. With so much focus on relationships in FL, I thought it would be fun to venture into them from a different direction. What if a character possessed an almost visceral response to certain sounds or tones, which caused them to seek them out? Also, what are the long-term effects of something like the Correspondence on the mind–where you study something that is like words, but is not-quite-words?

Then you become an author. What happens to your own writing?[li]
edited by dorianfoster on 4/24/2014[/li]
edited by dorianfoster on 6/19/2014

3

&quotSo, I spoke with the good doctor this eve.&quot Dorian glances over at zis friend as ze speaks, then quickly looks back to zis paper. As though reading it. &quotWe may get a reply, we may not. I may have been too forward.&quot

&quotZrii isso oooro iisir oo–&quot

Ze scowled at ze headlines. Not at zis friend. At what ze had to say next, was the truth. Pretending to read meant not looking at zis companion’s features when replying, &quot…You’ll need to hide…again. I don’t think London’s quite ready–&quot

Silence, the sound of bubbles. Dorian’s fingers tightened on the newsprint. Ze brushed zis thumb over the delicate paper. It left a streak behind.

&quot…You’re right. You’re–I remember the tomb colonies, too. Neither one of us have a–you know, It would make for a great headline though, wouldn’t it? I believe the talk will be on antiquities–if–she doesn’t ignore us, and that’s always a possibility, isn’t it? Antiquities, the esoteric. You’d think a crowd like tha–&quot Ze makes the mistake of actually reading the headline ze’d been perusing.

&quotMy aunt…&quot

Silence.

Ze gets up, and puts the paper down before turning to head towards the back room. &quotHow many Greyfields did you want?&quot

OOC: Cleaned up some of the previous writing. I’m still exploring the response to sounds, and the fire associated with the creative spirit. Ze’s turning into something of a beleaguered fellow.
edited by dorianfoster on 6/19/2014