I've been stuck in something of a rut lately with a massively, unwieldy epic cyberpunk project that isn't going anywhere; so I'm trying to diversify a bit with a smaller fantasy project and a simpler plot. It's pretty straightforward - a young man of humble (read: dirt poor) origins becomes embroiled in a conflict to free his oppressed people from a tyrant.

So who should this young man be? Should I cobble together a pastiche of traditional Campbell-esque heroes, or try to create a more complex, multi-dimensional character, who the player may or may not be able to empathize with?

In an effort to get to know him better, I've been starting out with some seeds of dialogue from his perspective. Hopefully letting him speak will help develop who he is.

***

As long as I can remember, there has been war around me and the village I live in. I don't know when it started, or why. It simply is, and we live our lives accordingly.

I'm not a soldier; at least, no more than I have to be, to protect my friends and my family. I've known soldiers. They live short, violent lives of passion, and I still can't understand why those from so-called civilized nations voluntarily take up the profession.

I make my living off this war, as the rest of us do. Some fight and are paid. Some tell others to fight and are paid. Some clean up afterwards and are paid. I would be the latter.

Soldiers come and go. Some promise to help us, others promise to hurt them. In the end they all end up the same; a shabby carbine and a couple magazines of full metal jacket ammunition, maybe an undamaged helmet or vest of armor if I'm lucky. That means food for a day, a week, and with a good find, a whole month.

Gave him a name!

These new soldiers are irritating, I don't understand them. They insist on bringing their dead off the field after every skirmish. This, by itself, is not unusual; but they stop at nothing to ensure every single high-value item is taken with them as well. Not once have I managed to appropriate a set of night optics or one of their smart carbines from them. I heard a rumor from the Fadayas - they live a few kilometers south of here, they say that they would detain every man, woman, and child in an encampment until they got every single piece of their property back. Still, they are not always successful. I've seen a few of the more profitable merchants proudly displaying a laser rangefinder or a land navigation system as proof of their prowess.

I've been rude in not introducing myself, and I apologize; sometimes I can get a little lost when I start talking about my line of work. My name is Gedeon.

Re: So who should this young man be?

o What would Gedeon do when another scavenger tries to take his items?
o What would Gedeon do if the war ends?
o What would Gedeon do if he is given the chance to leave the location?
o What would Gedeon do if his family member tries to volunteer and become a soldier?

A soldier encamped nearby shares some rations with Gedeon and his family, before the camp is discovered by the soldier's enemy. He was left alone as a non-combatant, but finds the soldier before a firing squad after his side was decimated. The enemy also sustained heavy losses and is retreating back to base, the rear guard firing squad is just ten men strong and is rounding up and executing the wounded. A 'carbine' sits at Gedeons feet.

o Does Gedeon help the soldier?

The above posts are all helpful in building a characters personality. Often times I actually start at the basics. I'll list a short template...



Gedeon (Oddly enough, my last name)

Role within the story:
Age:
Character body type:
Facial features:
Alignment:
Aspirations:
Point of his involvement:
Persona:
Signature abilities or items:
Relationship to characters within the story:
Who does he report or work for?
What has he been thru?
Where does he live?
What setting would he blend in most with?
Does he have inner conflicts or mental issues?


Just some suggestions. Some may seem irrelevant to your story, but honestly it helps build the character up and certainly gives it more personality.

Best of luck!

-Meegs

To develope him think of this. He sounds to be a young boy about 13 who has no idea why anything is happening but he knows what. One day is village is burnt down and his family dies. Him and only four men form his village are left with vengence on there mind. And you see him devolpe from a passive person into a deadly warrior.

The reason I say for men is for multiplayer. One man is an old wise man who trains you two are tradors and only one is your ture friend.

There are no philosophers in the foxhole.

Day after day I bring in these corpses, and not once do I bother to stop and ponder upon their fates had circumstances been better. I do not think because it is simply not my place to do so. I do my work, and I get paid. Frankly speaking, that's all I need.

Life here do not favor the wise. Perhaps in lands far away there are reason to think and analyse and debate, and perhaps in those lands such actions do yield productive results. Here, they but pointless exercises of fools.

Why ponder upon the reason for war when thoughts alone cannot change fate?

Why pray for a better future when you are not even sure today is going to last?

No, here, in my land, my life, you do what you have to do. You don't even pray for salvation, because that is time better spent on doing something that is actually useful. If you live, you live. If you die, you die.

Perhaps this is how we survive through a life wrapped in strife. The lesser the mind churns, the longer you get to live.

I used to dream of lush green fields and a haven where I could live free of oppression and suffering; where I could lead my herd of fluffy white sheep far across the lands without worry of bandits and mad men.

That dream is no more.
===================
Sorry for the bad grammar.

For those who say every morning brings a day full of opportunities, fuck you.

My day brought me nothing but fresh corpses. Do these people ever stop fighting? Were the nukes not enough?

There in the far side of the village, wass Seth - the commander of this garrison. He's a young veteran - wars have a way of accelerating one's ageing process. Perhaps this realization is the reason why I don't look at mirrors anymore.

Seth's always watching. His eyes were like those of an eagle scouting for prey - unblinking, watchful, and deadly cold. "Gadeon, come here."

Another load of cargo. I picked up the shovel and walked over, conscious that he is watching my every step. I was wrong - his gaze are closer to those of a vulture.

"Put away that shovel, boy. You won't be needing it today," he says. I sensed a tremor in his voice. That startled me. He paused for a moment, leaving the air pregnant with foreboding. The cigarette between his fingers on his right arm trembled as he took a long puff, and then blew into the wind. And in the smell of tobacco, was a faint taint of rot.

"The vanguards have fallen. They're coming."

Fuck. And all he can do is stand here puffing fags?