The challenge -- physical description as a key to character

He was a big man, heavy-set, like a boxer run to fat. Balding, whatever hair remained worn so short as to be colourless. Grey-green eyes, small nose almost lost in a fleshy face. Small hands though, with powerful, stubby fingers. They and the slab of muscle across the shoulders made me think - wrestler. Here was someone who now broke bodies for a living.
 
His almost feline grace was unmatched as he closed the distance between himself and the last contestant in the race. His earthy-green eyes shone with a fierce determination, flaring as he gained on his opponent. His sun-browned skin was tinted even darker by the dust of the track, yet his hair defiantly retained its silver hue, its considerable length waving in the air like a victorious flag as he overcame his tiring adversary. A smile danced upon his angular, elvish features as his athletically toned body flew over the finish line. As he sauntered away from the race track, he wondered if anyone had noticed his true gender.
 
The girl was sitting in a door alcove, smoking dog ends. Her matted blond hair flowed over her wet jacket that left little room for imagination what she was really wearing on top of those torn fishnets stuck into the military boots. Then again she wasn't one of the working girls, quite the opposite as I could in those steel grey eyes that said loud and clear: DANGER!
 
Ronanida, we wrote something similar in our descriptions! This is from my WIP:

A blonde woman stepped forward. Her eyes were dark, almost a black colour, and shone with a fiery passion that showed fierceness and determination. Her dress was extravagant—pure white, which, instead of making her look paler, seemed to illuminate her whole being. The material swept to the floor in a swirl of silk and beads that glowed in the sunset like embers. An intricate crown laced with pearls and silver sat atop her hair. The overall effect was striking, intimidating, and impressive, and in that instant Rachael knew this woman was not one to cross.​

At one time I'd had "fierce determination". :eek:
 
Each of the five soldiers before Mendel stood several inches taller and weighed half again as much - still, he held their gaze. Their captain stood off to the side sneering at his quarry. He did not understand the hesitation in his men's eyes. The lone civilian's forearms, free from the short sleeves of his ragged and blood-covered jacket, were covered in dozens of scars, every one of them older than any war he had fought in. He took a step forward. The right side of his face twitched and his right hand spasmed into a grasping motion periodically. The sword on his back, the only immaculate thing about the man, was wickedly long and thin. His darting hazel eyes were dillated, speaking a silent desire for an excuse; any excuse to draw the blade.
 
I don't think she's talking about something she posted here before, Ronanida.

I think she's just noticing a coincidence in the way you both described something.
 
Oh, blimey! I'm so sorry you thought I was being rude, Ronanida! :eek: I was just excited that someone else had a style similar to mine (in some respects).


And, to get this thread back on track, another one from my WIP, chopped slightly. Probably due to be changed as I get more finicky.

By the diminishing candlelight she tied her hair loosely. Just this once, she went to the mirror. Too long she had gone without seeing herself, yet she passed her reflection every day. Today she was shocked to discover that the woman staring back at her looked no older than when she’d first arrived here—young and pale. Somewhere along the way she had lost the withdrawn, haunted look and replaced it with a wild twinkle in her eye. She gripped a sword securely in one hand and her baggage in the other, and several bulky backpacks burdened her shoulders. A gold broach resembling an eagle held her pristine travelling cloak in place, while underneath the fabric, clothes of green and brown covered her lithe frame. Sword work and training had shaped her into someone new, unrecognisable. This person could be mistaken for any true resident of the First Order.

She looked at her garments, always designed to conceal her unmarked arms, her uniqueness.​
 
Hello all, this is my first time ever posting any of my writing for the world to see so let me know what you think.


Lady Blackrin stood at her vanity letting her red hair fall over her shoulders in a waterfall is silky smoothness. The candle light made her hair appear to almost glow with a fire all on its own. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, as she rubbed ointment onto her cheeks and around her eyes. She was a young woman in her early twenties, with skin smooth and fair as a painting. Her light brown eyes twinkled with youth and laughter. They followed her hands as she slowly brushed her hair as she hummed quietly to herself.
 
DFM, the prose still has some way to go yet, such as her eyes following her hand (don't you mean "gaze"? :D), and with grammatical errors, so wait until you've got 15 posts in your post count and upload an excerpt in Critiques, where people will be happy to help you. :)

This area, "Workshop", is not for critiques on pieces. That's the beauty of it - you post up your finished writing, the writing you've polished to the best of your ability, without fear of feedback.





But welcome to the forum! I hope to see you around and perhaps entering the monthly writing challenges here in Workshop. :)
 
Hello, DFM, and Welcome to the Chronicles. Thank you for sharing your piece with us. As Leisha says, this workshop area isn't a place for critiques or any kind of critical feedback, though if people want to say how much they enjoyed someone's post, or how well it is written, that kind of thing never goes amiss!

I certainly look forward to seeing you in the Critiques Forum if you think you'd like help with your writing, but just one small caveat to Leisha's helpful advice: simply logging 15 posts isn't necessarily enough to enable you to post there. If you have a read of this thread http://www.sffchronicles.co.uk/forum/528314-question-about-the-critque-forum.html#post1412677 it explains things further.

I hope to see you around and about in Aspiring Writers. If you haven't already done so, pop across to Introductions, tell us a bit about yourself, and be welcomed formally.
 
I'm bad at giving description in lump, so I tend to throw it in here and there throughout the story. I need to work on that, though, cuz it ends up being too spread out for people to remember. Anywho, here's my shot:

I met him at the club. When he approached the bar and turned his rooting eyes my way, my sister sent me a knowing look and gave up her seat like a dancer retreating from her position on stage. He said he was a journalist and had his own column in the city newspaper, but he still lived with his mom, which I knew right away when he tried to put the moves on me in the front seat of his car. So I moved his hands off my hips and onto the steering wheel and asked him to take a road trip with me.

I directed him onto the freeway and he spun the wheel like he was turning off a valve. As I fell in and out of sleep, his sinuous arms and the hard lines of his face bobbed into my consciousness. In my half-awake state, I felt myself writing the script of my dreams, and in it he stood before a mirror, and I behind him, tracing my fingers down the back of his polo shirt until I found the zipper.

The villain in the story, I ripped the zipper down, and the striped red polo and khaki pants fell off at his feet, while he stared at the mirror, aloof as ever, and under it all I saw the thrift store button-up and hand-me-down jeans that he had hidden away. He began to preen in the dream mirror, neurotically squirting gel onto his black hair and tearing at the curls. Gel ran down over his face and into his flat, serious eyes and, with the gel hardening on his face so that he looked like an appaloosa horse, white mixing with brown, he asked me, "Where are we going?"

I started awake. His voice shook a little and he drove fast in and out of lanes. "West," I said.
 
She floated, dreamily through the subconcious of men. A smile as wicked as the Devil's keeper, with black lips to match her eyes of coal. Her raven hair, stark against skin so pale that it burnt their eyes to look directly upon her. Skin as white, and cold as the the dress that adorned her slender frame. Yet she moved with such grace, dancing and pirouetting through their dreams; calling for them to be hers. Touching their souls with porceline hands; enticing them to join her in hell.
 
His shirt sleeves were rolled and soot stained, his hands well salted in beer. Upon his cheeks he wore a drunkards blush but he eyes were crisp and green and alert. He stood, he generous belly rolling over the wood table to precede him as he sauntered over to the door.
 
The boy was a scrawny specimen, barely over five feet tall and probably weighing no more than a down-filled pillow or two. Both his size and his garb spoke to his profession: under his leather riding harness he wore a sturdy flight jacket, stiff canvas breeches and knee-high boots, with a pair of smoked-glass goggles resting casually amongst the thick, ragged black hair atop his head. His beardless cheeks were chafed with windburn, his lips cracked and dry, but his kit was immaculate. The leather of the harness and his post-rider's satchel was soft and supple, the steel clasps and buckles polished and gleaming in the lantern-light. He drew a bundle of parchments wrapped in twine from the satchel and placed them on the desk before the clerk. 'Mail out of the Leeward Isles, sir,' he said plainly, and without another word turned and headed out into the night, to return to his mount, and his route.
 
There was blood in his eyes. No-one else could see it, only him: it filmed the world in red. Most people avoided him, the limping village idiot with the too-intense stare and knowing grin. Some were kind - or guilty - enough to throw a few coins at his feet. They were few enough, though. No matter. They hadn't been in the War. They didn't know what atrocities an Orc could wreak with a serrated glove. Pulling his cowl over his face he shuffled on, past the inn, each tortured step drawing unwitting winces from the crowd that had gathered to watch his unsteady progress. He'd been a hero, once, long ago...
 
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This isn't one of my strongest points I'll be honest. Somehow my descriptions of characters always manage to sound cheesy and vague. But I'll give it my best shot...

She stood still as a statue with only her chest moving as she breathed. Tall and muscular in physique but with perfect feminine curves. Her eyes were dark and sinister and her lips perfectly straight in seriousness. Her right hand was rested on her hip in a cool and casual manner as though nothing could have affected her. Her hair hung down past her shoulders and as black as the night sky above her. Her eyes were perfectly fixed and she was waiting for the right moment to take her next action.

I just don't get how people write good descriptions of their characters :confused:
 
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