Gescano

Gescano readied his blunted sword, it was time to drill.

“Right, left, parry, block, lunge,” he barked orders at his master, who was now his student. He could see sweat running down Cathalan's brow and he was heaving for breath.

“Come my lord, if that is the best you can muster, then you will not live long in this world,” Gescano raised his sword again to attack.

Gescano served Lord Cathalan, as he had Cathalan's father, and as his son would. He took pains to teach them well. His life was duty and service, protection of his master

The King of Halloween

He perched on a flat, broad bough with a set of pipes, festooning the air with a merry tune. His skin, unblemished bronze, glimmered green in the moonlight. A pair of stag antlers, high and branching, were nestled in his curly hair - red-brown and wild - and he wore a crown of oak leaves and acorns. His hands were nicked with scars from long use with weapons, and his body was lean, strong. When asked who he was, he said he was Cernnunos, Weiryn, Herne, Korneli, Pan, Pashupati, the Green Man. No matter his name, he was King of Samhain.

Kinoria

Kinoria was dangerous. Smiling at her victim they never suspected that she brought them death. She liked to change it up, hardly ever killing the same way in a short space of time. Dagger, poison, fast or slow, it did not really matter to her, the job got done anyways.

Kinoria trembled, they wanted her to kill again, they wanted her to kill Cathalan, her husband. She knew if she didn't do it, they would kill both him and herself, and so she would.


She was an assassin of the first order, but now she was coming to regret it.

Jamal Mbaya

Jamal didn’t ask questions when the teenage girl brought in a boy with shrapnel wounds across his back, even though this area of the Congo was war-free. He didn’t ask about the supermodel-blond boy who showed up in his medical tent with strangulation wounds and a bullet lodged between two left ribs. He was paid to heal, not ask, so he treated them with deft, gentle hands before prescribing care and sending them on their way, back into the Congo undergrowth. He said nothing when police came by, because the tattoo on his left wrist was more than four lines.

Cathalan

Cathalan looked at the man before him, his eyes begging for a short break. His sword was drooped in exhaustion and he was breathing hard. Sweat was running down his face and his usually perfectly coiffed hair was in disarray. Cathalan's eyes went distant as he remembered how he got to where he was.

A painful blow brought him out of his memories and he raised his practice sword in an automatic defense. He swung to wide and received another hard aimed blow.

“Again my lord,” Gescano, his squire, was relentless as he drilled his master in the sword.

Laika

Laika flitted through the trees, no sound coming from his soft shod feet. Clear depthless eyes peered from an intelligent heart stopping-beautiful face. Bow and hand were seamless, both adept at finding their target and making the kill. His voice raised in song was enough to make the nightingales jealous of his music. His fingers, long and slender, drew from wood and stone images that had no peer. Marriage was not his goal, but his fathers wish.

Running through the woods he fled his decreed fate and looked for a future elsewhere that did not exist for him.

Kim Jo Seung

Jo Seung moves like silk, like clockwork, on a mat of linoleum on a street corner in Phoenix. At first the Mexican boys were dubious, but he’s slick, has iron-clad control over his body and can make it do things no human could do. But a robot could do them. He has distinctly foreign eyes and shiny black hair. When the dancing is done, he has a deceptively sweet smile and shiny steel knives that whistle through the air like he whistles K-pop tunes. He fights like he dances, rhythmic and nonstop, until the target’s heart has stopped.

Xin

Xin was a strong woman, a fearless fighter, and a true friend.

She fought with the strength of two and the bravery of ten. She never doubted who she was and what she wanted. Her sword rang out in the heat of battle, dancing in to deliver fatal blows; coming to the aide of her comrades.

The blows rained down on her in the prison, the questioners relentless, but Xin would never betray her crew, she would die before failing them. Through broken bone and blackened eye Xin smiled in the face of her captors.

“Bring me sweet death.”



(I reworked it, trying to make it better.)

Okita Megumi

The scar across Meg’s left eye looked raw and pink, as if it were freshly healed and sore to the touch. It crinkled when she arched an eyebrow or smiled or was anything but stone-faced, and she looked sinister. All the time. She wore blue, grey, and white - hakama, hakama-kita, haori - and tied her long, black hair back into a high ponytail. She was small and petite-looking, like a doll, until she was in action, and with each sweep of her blade the others realized she was iron-strong, battle fierce, and just as brittle to break.

Gentle

The night was gentle, everything about this night was soft, the waves, the moon, the wind on the grasses and the scent of the roses in full bloom. The sigh of her lover in the night was as quiet as down feathers on the wind. She couldn't wish for anything more than this.

Alexander Dumas

He was a rebel, he fought against the powers that be. He could not fight directly, but by learning he could help destroy them. He could also dream, in a world where no one knew how to dream anymore, he saw 'Night Visions'

Reading was forbidden, a crime punishable by instant death. There were none now, save for a few who could decipher the ancient words upon the brittle paper.

He was a follower to the cause, in secret he delivered the books and the papers from one to another, always avoiding detection.

He was Alexander Dumas, he could read.

Jesse Carlisle

Jesse hated being called pretty. He’d been long disabused of protesting his prettiness, because he was an actor and his good looks were an undeniable asset. When most people called him pretty, though, it was derogatory, a dismissal of the rest of his existence. So he jammed a beanie hat down over his hair - red-brown, soft-looking, the magazines said - and wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses to hide his eyes - grey and intense, reporters simpered - and hunched over his guitar. On the dimly-lit stage in a crowded coffee shop, he was a musician instead of a superstar.

Gentle

"Do not go gentle into that good night."

Easier said than done, Tobias thought. After one had taken a beating like the one he'd gone through tonight, the temptation to go easily was better than alcohol to an alcoholic. One eye was non-functional, and one arm was - gone. Beyond repair. He'd be okay once Christian arrived, though. Christian could heal anything.

In the meantime. He hefted his Uzi and opened fire.

Chantelle Murane

Chanti’s hands were bloody with pin-pricks because she’d spent all night repairing garb for the rest of the True Ballentines. They would look striking in battle at War, and even if they forgot why they looked so good, she would fight boldly alongside them.

In the corner, her latest painting dried. She’d work on it some more, even before the pain subsided, because she could hold a paintbrush, and why not put some blood into her work? She tossed her head, forcing brown hair out of bright eyes, and wondered if Xander would agree to a pink portrait background.

A Goddess Brought to Life.

She was a live wire, totally unpredictable and full of life. Here one minute and gone the next, she flitted through the world, riding the waves and basking in the desert heat. To capture her was an impossibility, she called down the stars and danced on the lightning. Her laughter was a thousand voices on the wind, her eyes mirroring all that had ever been and all that could ever be.

Hers was the blessing sought by all living below, calm winds, the gift of a child. Her smile was the sun and her tears the life of the world.






(please tell me if I have incorrectly labeled a post.)

Project #2 Capture an Original Character in a Drabble

Write a drabble on any original character, try to convey the spirit and essence of that character. Use an old character that you have created or come up with a completely new character. Have fun and explore the range of characters. They can be bases in any genre.

100 words. I hope this one turns out to be fun!

Game On!

Fathers and Sons

He’d heard Eileen tell him - she was a witch. She wasn’t fair of face, and local rumor was she was something of a harridan, but she’d seen something in him - simple Tobias, lowly factory worker - that made him feel like a man, like he could be loved despite his rough speech and clumsy gestures. He hadn’t realized Eileen’s being a witch meant his son - only son, heir, last of the noble Yorkshire line - would be a wizard.


A freak.

A dark-eyed mite too smart for his own good who mumbled half-baked Latin and moved things with his mind.