Writing stories with multiple protagonists

Today I'm trying something different. Instead of sharing tidbits of stories I'm working on, I'm going to try writing about...writing. This is more or less just an experiment, and if enough people like it to warrant doing more, I'll try it.

Now for the main event: Stories with multiple main characters. Considering the popularity of Game of Thrones and the fact that I'm writing my next story this way, I felt it relevant to discuss. They're quite a departure from literature in that you're dealing with multiple characters that need to be in the limelight, as opposed to many other stories where the majority of the focus is on one character, with some attention on some other characters if the situation calls for it. Juggling the spotlight between multiple people can be hard, as you've got to give them an equal amount of relevance and character growth of one main character...but there's now three or four.

Let's take what I'm writing now for example. My current project involves three parties. Lucy, the young lady who's recently taken up pickpocketing and mugging to put bread on her table and tea in her cup. I've got Inspector Cliffe and Constable Evans, The first a veteran cop who's getting frustrated at his recent lack of caught culprits and the other a withdrawn fresh hand with surprising diligence. And then Cyril, a wealthy heir who uses his resources to combat the main antagonist, and is the one who drags the others into the main conflict. Over the course of the story, everyone has to play an equal part, and I have to flesh out their characters equally well. And while these sorts of novels tend to be a big longer, you're still going to need to be efficient if you want to give each character a reasonable amount of depth. Thankfully for me and anyone else wanting to write something like this, there are some ways to deal with this.

For character fleshing out and development, there are many ways to show multiple characters' personalities at once. What a person is like is displayed rather well when faced with something, generally a choice but can be any situation. Whether you risk yourself to save another or use them as a distraction so you can run free, for example. Of course, multiple characters can experience the same situation, which is especially useful if you want to show contrast between the characters involved. This is one of the reasons I believe the two officers will be easiest to develop; Since they're partners in crimefighting, their differences will come apparent as they deal with scenarios in different ways. You can even make the choice or scenario involve other main characters, which means that you'll be showcasing their personalities by how they interact with each other. This is where most of Cyril's personality will shine through; he usually works alone against the main evil, so the others getting roped into the conflict is something he'll have to get used to. Obviously, though, this only works if the characters are able to interact. If your characters are at completely different corners of the world, then you're better off describing them separately.

Regardless of whether or not your characters end up meeting each other, there's still something that they all must play a part in, otherwise you're better off writing stories for them individually. My mindset for dealing with this is to think of the main characters as subplots that all, in their own way, move the large-scale plot forward. A good example of this idea is The Dolls of New Albion, one of my favorite audio plays. While the story follows four generations of the McAllister family, yet the plot is actually about the large cultural changes they sparked in New Albion. Annabelle from the first act discovers a process that brings people back to life in mechanical dolls, her son Edgar found it and turned it into a business, which then spawns a cult that his son is largely involved in, and so on and so forth. Each character is distinctive, each with their own motivations and desires, but it's New Albion itself that develops the over time. I'm not saying that the goal in all of these types of stories is worldbuilding, you can do anything so long as you do it well, but worldbuilding is a strong point of stories with multiple protagonists, especially when they're in different places so you can demonstrate the different cultures and relationships between peoples of your fictional world. The point is that your story should develop your characters equally, be just as important, and have all of them working to advance the same plot.

So that's it from me! Tell me what you thought of this in the comments, I'd really like to know if churning out these instead of my short story snippets is worth it, since I'm probably not going to share much more on Cirrendale due to wanting to try and publish it.

I've won a competition!

My story's been chosen for The Power of Words competition, meaning it will be published with a bunch of other short stories sometime later! I'm so excited that I've been chosen out of likely hundreds of students from all across New Zealand! Here's the winning entry: A short piece on Garret, the nonprofessional freelance spy I've already done some writing on. Enjoy!

“Mr. Gerrat?” A hand gestures from behind a door for me to come inside. I oblige, and walk through to be greeted by the owner of the arm and manager of the Pinkertons, a salt-and-pepper haired man in a similarly coloured suit and tie. He offers his hand, which I shake, and he directs me to a seat opposite his. His table’s organised inhumanly tidily, and he’s even got one of those Newton’s Cradles.

“So, Mr. Gerrat. I’ve heard that you’re an...interesting case.”

Oh boy.

“In what ways?” I ask, knowing full well what ways he was about to refer to.

“Well, for starters, your record. For someone who claims to be a ‘Freelance spy’, you spend a lot more time on breaking into buildings for the hell of it.”

“White-hat infiltration is a legitimate business, though.”

“I might have been fine with that of your definition of ‘infiltration’ involved stealth and surveillance rather than smacking the lights out of everyone you meet.”

“Uh...Yeah…”I shift in my seat.

“And I’ve heard you’ve started claiming bounties as well?”

“Only Rhett Jones, and I’m not planning on doing anymore.” I lie, trying to salvage this seemingly-lost interview.

“Alright.” The man’s shoulders sag, seemingly exasperated. “Mr. Gerrat? If this company was still in its early days, and we needed someone to settle revolting workers, you might have had a shot. We’ve changed from that. We’re not looking for ruffians who are good at getting their hands dirty. We’re looking for professionals. Someone who can refrain from breaking someone’s nose when infiltrating a company to get information on the employees. I know you HAVE worked on some cases, to reasonable success. However, you just seem too...volatile.”

I nod, not sure if I should say anything.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to reject your offer to join us.” He concludes.

‘Okay, that’s fine,’ I thought, stepping out of the Pinkertons building and into the mango afternoon light. ‘It’s perfectly reasonable that he decided to refuse my application. It was a good decision and I respect him for it.’ Doesn’t change the fact that I’m livid over it. Couldn’t he at least have given me a job as a bodyguard? I could be a bodyguard. He knows I’m good at incapacitating people, considering he managed to dig up my entire job record. Wait, how did he even find all that out? The only person who keeps any record of my work is...me…

I fumble with the keys to get my apartment door unlocked. After trying every wrong key on the chain, I finally get the door open.

Everything looks fine. My spare trenchcoat’s propped up on the coathanger like it should be. My desk still has all of my folders strewn about in the order I left them. The windows and blinds haven’t seemed to be tampered with, the light’s still as dingy as always, and nothing else had been moved from what I can tell. Either the Pinkertons are that damn good at their job, which I can definitely believe, or they weren’t here at all. Sighing, I collapse on the now-groaning couch and try to watch TV.

My eyes start to open, and it’s pitch black. I startledly sit up, and my hat falls falls from my face, revealing a slightly less dark apartment. The TV’s still on, playing some hospital soap opera, and I think my phone’s buzzing from my pants pocket. Pulling it out to check, it tells me I’ve received a text from an anonymous sender. Hoping this warrants waking me up at god-knows-when, I read the text.

“I need to talk with you. Meet me at the Fowler Park entrance at midnight.”

Because waiting outside the locked entrance to a park that won’t be opened for hours isn’t conspicuous at all. At least it can’t be a set up; Anyone trying to do me in would have more sense than to meet me in front of a street. I turn off the TV, feel around the room until I find the door, and head out, asking the receptionist of the building to inform anyone who asks that I’m heading to the bar on the opposite side of town.

Fowler Park is only a few blocks away from where I live, so I arrive at the giant chained-up gates in a matter of minutes. As I jog beside the moss-laden brick walls of the park to the entrance, I spot a figure leaning against the gate in a black double-breasted jacket. Any mention of his conspicuous attire would be hypocritical considering my usual gear, so I just lean beside him.

“You’re late,” He comments.

“You DID text me in the dead of night, expecting me to wake up and get here in 5 minutes,” I retort, glaring at him.

“Fair enough, sorry.” He sags his shoulders and looks down.

“Next time, call beforehand. Now who are you and what do you want?”

“Well, you see, a friend of mine went missing recently an-”

“You woke me up for something you could have gotten the police or Pinkertons onto?”

“Th-that’s the thing,” He stutters. “H-He was investigating the Pinkertons when he disappeared.”

“Why was he doing that?”

“I-I can’t say.” Probably a P.I. hired by someone to dig up some dirt on the Pinkertons.

“So you want me to find your friend by doing the exact same thing he did to get in trouble in the first place?”

“Well, you could just break into their building and look for info on-”

“If it were that easy, your friend would be fine.”

“But he’s not a professional like you.” Now, I wouldn’t go as far as to say professional, but…

“It’s a maybe.”

“Really?”

“Depending on how much you pay me.”

$30000. Compared to my usual payments, this was massive. He was willing to pay half of it up front, but I went against it; I’m only going to be able to use the money if I don’t get caught. Everything’s been going surprisingly well so far, though. One of the watchmen had the front door keys on him, and from there I only ran into a dozen security guards to get to their archives. There’s no way in hell I’ll guess the passwords on the computers, so I sigh and get to work on the wall of filing cabinets, unlocking them with the key held by the guy stationed outside the door. After a thankfully short time of flipping through files, I eventually got to what I was looking for; Jason Jenson, my client’s MIA friend. It states that he was a private investigator (called it) who was planning to steal something from the Pinkertons building, as evident from the pictures of crudely drawn floor plans in the file. It’s then mentioned that he was caught hours after his plans came to light, although there’s no mention as to where. I flip to the last page of the report.

Stay out of our business, Gerrat.

They knew I was coming? Granted, they’re the Pinkertons, but I only got asked to do this job an hour ago. I’ve already left the archives, sprinting to where I pray some kind of back exit is. If they knew about my job here, then they must have called in the police or something. Thankfully, I find a fire exit leading out into an alley, allowing me to evacuate before any called-in cops make it to the Pinkertons building.

It’s 10 AM, and everything’s done and dusted. After falling onto my bed as soon as I got home, I sent my client the info I got over the phone, omitting the Pinkertons’ message for me. He thanked me for giving him the info, even if he still had no idea where he was now. He informed me that the money should be in my business account in a matter of hours. I sip the coffee I made during the call and smile at the fortune I made myself. My phone rumbles again, and I pull it out to find a call from a private number. If It’s who I think it is, this isn’t going to be a fun call, but ignoring them would be much worse. I answer the call..

“Had fun last night, Gerrat?”

“Look, it wasn’t anything personal, the job just happened to come up last night.” I explain.

“I know. I organised the whole thing.”

“...You did?” Explains how they knew I was coming on such short notice. “Why?”

“First, we wanted to examine your techniques firsthand. You may be excessively violent, but we wanted to see if you were at least GOOD at it.”

“Second,” He continues, “I decided having a recording of a freelance spy breaking into our establishment would be a good threat if said spy decides to turn against us.”

So they’re blackmailing me. Typical. Despite everything I’m being told right now, I really only have one question.

“Do I still get paid?”

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I've started writing on Cirrendale again

Now that I've finished work on the piece I'm sending in for a competition (You'll see it when the competition's over), I'm going back to working on Cirrendale. Not only that, but I've managed to do something that I've struggled with since the dawn of time; plan ahead and create the gist of a coherent plot. At the very least, a plot that isn't 1500 words long. This is a continuation of More on Cirrendale, so go check that out first, it's likely been ages and you've almost definitely forgotten.

Inspector Cliffe was getting tired of these blasted muggings. They always seem to take place in streets or other crowded places, yet no one sees a bloody thing. Even the blasted victim didn’t see who held him at gunpoint; All he recalled seeing was some gentleman being roughhoused by a street rat, both of whom then turned his attention to him. It was this sort of scenario that had Inspector Cliffe considering early retirement. He turned away from the man dressed only in his undergarments and had another round at trying to gather any useful information from the crowd of known passersby some of the constables had found and rounded up. This second endeavour revealed nothing, however. The few people who had seen anything of the crime only saw the two thugs kicking his almost-bare body and knew nothing of the third who threatened to shoot him if he didn’t surrender his belongings. A handful of witnesses gave vague and rather unhelpful descriptions of the pair, such as “One well dressed and the other, an urchin”, but the majority were borderline useless. Inspector Cliffe, even more sick and tired of these muggings, consulted Constable Evans to check if there was anyone else to question.

“Well, we tried to keep everyone here, but several people left before we could arrive,” He said, rifling through his clipboard.

“Any names?”

Ms. Lucy Anne, Mr. Clancey Brighton, Mr. Conan Fawkes, and a man in a suit and masquerade mask that we couldn’t find a name for.”

“Alright. Get back to the office and see what you can find on the masked man, he might be involved. I’ll contact the rest of the people on the list.”Cliffe takes the clipboard from the constable and proceeds to hail down a carriage.

Lucy sat in her red armchair, sipping her Formosa Oolong peach blossom tea. One of the few luxuries she could afford to have without anyone questioning where she got the money. Thankfully, her husband’s possessions were fashionable enough. The beige table and chairs were quaint enough to be a conversation starter, should she have needed one. The timepiece on the wall was elegantly crafted, a gift from a clockmaker her husband had helped, but not made of any expensive materials like you’d imagine to see in a successful banker’s room. Even the oil paintings that hung the walls were painted by his friend as birthday presents. It wasn’t as glamorous as some people would like, but for her, it was fine. As she downed the last of her tea, a knocking came from the front door. She walked over as quietly as possible and stared through the peephole. She was relieved to see that it wasn’t any of the police, and was in fact no one at all. Lucy opened the door to check further, and as she stepped onto her welcome mat, she felt something under her foot. She glanced down and saw a letter partially crushed under her shoe. She picked it up and returned to her armchair inside, fearing the contents of the letter may incriminate her. Not bothering with a letter opener, she pulls the envelope open and reads:

Miss Lucy Anne,

We know of your capabilities, and would like to enlist your help.

A man at 54 Helmsman Avenue has a bracelet that is of utmost importance to us.

We require that you retrieve this bracelet and drop it off on top of the statue in front of Abney Park.

We will obtain the bracelet from that location as soon as possible.

Do this for us, and you will be paid handsomely.

‘A job request?’ Lucy pondered what the letter asked of her. She had never been hired to steal anything; while she was becoming quite adept at conning and swindling, she only did it out of necessity, to put food on her table. Being asked to steal for someone else, a commision of sorts, was something she had never done, never had to consider doing. The promise of being paid handsomely was an interesting one as well. She made enough on pickpocketing and holding at gunpoint, and she wasn’t exactly high maintenance, as her profession of choice would show. However, The money might come in handy for other things. She could recruit people more easily, obtain the equipment she could use for more daring heists...This could turn her petty thefts into front-page robberies, and give her the budget to potentially get away with it. It would make things ever so more entertaining. She reread the letter. There’s no mention of a certain deadline for her to meet, so it would appear she had all the time she needed to start her first professional heist.

~ ~ ~

Inspector Cliffe inspected the clipboard held in his hands again, reaffirming that he had indeed been correct in ordering the carriage driver to head to Highland Way. Thankfully, Constable Evans was neither untidy nor one to do things by halves, and had organised the last few witnesses’ names, faces and addresses rather presentably, although Cliffe wondered when he had the time to obtain this info. Surely he didn’t when he went to get tea for the both of them?

“We’re turning onta Highlind Way now, Inspecta!” The driver called out from outside, with a surprisingly thick accent. Cliffe wonders whether the man even had an education. The carriage halted at 20 Highland Way, and Cliffe stepped out onto the footpath, paying the driver. He made his way to the door and prepared himself to interrogate.

Lucy tried not to panic as she heard the knocking on the door.

‘They can’t have her down as a suspect,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘It’s much more likely they’re here to interrogate me as a witness.’ She calmed herself and opened her front door to greet the man.

“Constable Cliffe! It’s been ages!” She gave him a genuine smile, praying that would mask her nerves.

“That’s Inspector Cliffe now, and yes, it has. I don’t think I’ve seen you since-”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, of course!”

Cliffe stepped into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa he always envied. Lucy followed him, picking up the letter that was still on the table as she sat down in the red armchair, with her guest beside her.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t prepared anything, I didn’t know you were arriving! There’s still some tea left in the kettle if you want it.”

“No thanks, Lucy, I’m here on business.” Cliffe informed her. “There’s been a mugging on Fleet Street recently, and-”

“Was that the one where the two thugs were kicking a man in the shins?”

“You saw it and didn’t tell anyone?” Cliffe was taken aback by Lucy’s withholding of this knowledge.

“I’m so sorry, I saw them and then they looked at me like I’d be next, so I ran and hailed a carriage as fast as I could!” She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

“It’s alright, Lucy,” The inspector consoled. “I can’t blame you for leaving as fast as you could. Rest assured, those fiends are being held in custody and are being interrogated as we speak.”

“G...Good to hear.” Lucy tried to maintain her composure. “So what do you want me for?”

“Well, we believe there was a third assailant who held the victim at gunpoint and coerced him into giving up his clothes and money. We haven’t got anything from the witnesses, so we were hoping you saw anything.”

“Oh…” Lucy paused, looking down at the cup in her hands. “I didn’t see anyone else, I’m afraid. He must have left before I saw him.” She sighed before drinking the last sips of her cup. “I’m sorry I can’t be of much help…”
“Oh, no, it’s fine!” Cliffe reassured. “To be honest, you’ve been more helpful than most of our other witnesses.” It was untrue, she didn’t shed any new light at all, but Cliffe didn’t want to make her feel worse than she seemed to already be feeling. “At any rate, I’ve got a few more witnesses to talk to before I turn in, so I’d better get to it.”
“Of course,” Lucy looked back at him, a fraction of a smile on her lips. “Thank you for coming, it was lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Cliffe picked up his clipboard and bowed his head at her before exiting.

Multiple characters, motives, and hinted-at relationships? It's almost like I'm becoming competent.

More Not-Actually-Noir

So it turns out what I was writing isn't actually Noir. Whatever, here's some more of it.

It’s a clear night, Both good and bad. Bad because I’ll be more visible in the moonlight. Good because I’m not soaked from walking all the way here. If my jobs weren’t so spread out, I might be able to afford a car. Peering from a side alley I see my target in front of me. It looks to be about ten years old, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s crawling with guards. There are four overlooking the area from the warehouse’s balcony, each monitoring from a handrail corner. My ears prick up at the sound of gravel crushed against someone’s foot. Looks like more watchmen are pacing the perimeter. I crouch behind a dumpster as the footsteps grow louder.  They stop, and the only thing I can hear is my own breathing. The footsteps start again, flashlight aimed at the alley and getting closer. As they pass the dumpster, I jump up and headbutt them, and they stagger and go out cold. I immediately regret doing that, as I’m hit with a wave of dizziness, falling back on the wall for support. After taking a minute for it to subside, I try to figure out what to do next. They’ve probably already noticed that one of their men’s gone missing, so I doubt that borrowing the warden’s clothes will do me any good. Although…

A few minutes later, the guard pulls himself up, trying to figure out why he decided to snooze in an alley. He recalls someone behind the dumpster got the jump on him.

‘Well, at least he was kind enough to give me his trenchcoat,’ the addled watchman thinks to himself. ‘I was getting kind of chilly in this uniform.’ He pulls the belt on it tighter and walks back to his post. He sees his guard buddy and waves to him. In response, she unholsters her pistol and demands he leave the premises.

“Leave the premises? I’m doing my damn job, aren’t I?” The coat-wearing intruder replies. ‘This is the guy they send to test our security?’ Sandra thinks as she pulls the trigger. The saboteur keels over, screaming ‘WHAT THE HELL  ARE YOU DOING!?”

“I’m doing my damn job, aren’t I?” She snarks back at him. As she puts another shot into the trespasser, his hat falls off, revealing his face, rigid from the shocks he’d been receiving.

‘Jeremy?’

I’m pressed up against the other side of the storehouse, both feeling sorry for the guy and trying not to laugh at the fact that it had worked. The fiasco got the attention of the wardens up on the balcony, so I sprinted under them before they realised what was happening. Locating a fire exit, I shimmy over to it, and after some careful adjustments (slicing the latch bolt off using a highly sharpened retractable blade), I slip in.

Shutting the door behind me, the empty shelf right ahead tells me about the severe lack of tech being stored in the storeroom. Figures, Conway doesn’t want me to take anything while I’m here. Fair enough. I slink behind the shelf as best I can, trying to sneak to the centre of the warehouse.

“Freeze!”

Well, that didn’t last long. Pulling myself up, I turn to face my captor, raising my hands up and wondering why he hasn’t shot me like he was supposed to.

“Keep it down, will ya? You’ll wake up the whole neighbourhood.” I joke, stepping towards the shadow of the man holding me at gunpoint.

“I said freeze, damnit!” He growls back, taking a step forward to presumably show dominance. The stomping of feet starts coming from the other side of the warehouse. As he steps into a slice of moonlight from a rooftop window, I see his black shirt doesn’t match with the baby-blue of Bluetech’s security staff. He’s wearing a circular badge with a coat of arms and the words ‘Weston Police Force’ surrounding it. What’s he doing here? Did Conway hire them for added security? He takes another step, his pistol aimed directly between my eyes.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Rhett Jones!”

Ohhhhhhh.

I slap the gun out of his hand and run forward to punch him. The sudden assault catches him by surprise and he drops on the floor, where I pin him down and sock him until his lights go out. Then I give him a few more just to be safe. Will there be any more? Almost definitely. I glance at the pistol dropped by the officer. Do they use the same non-lethal ammunition Bluetech are using now? I pick it up and fire it at his leg to check. His muscle spasms tell me that they do. Perfect. The footsteps start closing in on me. I try to judge the distance between me and the door. I don’t think I can make it in time. I peek around the side of my cover and fire a few shots off randomly before ducking back. Groans come from behind me, followed by a couple of thuds as the hounds that I somehow hit fall to the floor. I swing around the other side, fire off the rest of the clip, and run for the door. Bullets graze past me, the shocks they give strong enough to sting like soaking a wound in the Dead Sea, but brief enough for me to keep moving. I make it through the door and go to close it, but another jolt goes through me as I find out that they shot the door. I bolt, praying that no one gets through the now-electrified door in time to line up a decent shot. I briefly consider trying to get my coat and hat back, but one of the watchmen on the roof spot me, and I have to retreat to the safety of the city streets. I’m sprinting through the sidewalks, just wanting to get home as soon as possible so I can sit down and down some coffee while I mull over the fact that Conway just tried to give me up.

I don't really like that last sentence, so I'm probably going to change it later.

And now for something completely different: Me writing what I assume to be Noir.

Here's the start of a short story that I'm working on for a competition. I don't know WHAT competition I'll enter it in yet, but it better win. I decided that writing about some kind of Noir-esque story about freelance spies would be fun, and it is, and here I am.

I’m sitting at a table just outside a nice little cafè, sipping at the latte in my gloved hands. It’s pretty damn good, the same size as a Grande cup but a bit cheaper. I look inside at the cafè’s food display. There’s a lot of tempting delicacies on sale: Pastries, cakes, savouries...Ooh, a bacon and egg croissant, sounds nice. Or maybe a chicken and brie sandwich, that sounds lovely. I wonder if I could ask them to toast it for me? It’s worth a shot. I get up from my seat, walk through the cafè door and past some brunching businesspeople to the counter, where I’m greeted by a friendly blonde asking how she can help me. I give her my order, she gives me a number on a stand and tells me to wait. Just as soon as I take my seat again, the phone in my pants pocket goes off. Looks like I have another job. I take my phone out and check the message. “Is this Gerratt?” It was sent by someone by the name of Sarah Conway.

“Why, yes it is.”

“Good. My name is Sarah Conway.” I dwell on the redundancy of that statement before I continue reading.

“I’m the CEO of Bluetech Industries, and I’d like your help with something.” After a brief background check, I respond.

“A relatively successful technology company wants to hire a freelance spy? Sounds shifty.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Sarah responds rather quickly. ”We’ve got an import of our latest product coming in in a few days, and I want to make sure it isn’t stolen.”

“So you’re setting an agent to catch an agent?” The blonde comes up to my table with the toasted sandwich. I thank her, give her some change, and take a bite while Sarah answers my question.

“Actually, you’ll be testing our security. We’ll guard the place just as well tonight as we will when the product’s here. You’ll try to break in, and report back tomorrow with how I can improve the warehouse’s defenses.”

I take another bite. Damn, this tastes good.

“Alright. Are your guys going to shoot to kill? I could kind of do without potentially dying.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be equipped with stun rounds, worst that will happen is a few paralyzing shocks.”

“Stun rounds? What is this, Star Trek?”

“I would have imagined someone such as yourself would be up to date on the advancement of munitions technology.”
“Eh, Never really needed non-lethal ammo. Speaking of which, I assume you DON’T want me to kill all your guards.”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

More on Cirrendale, and an arguably boring monologue.

I liked the character I introduced in 'A small piece on Cirrendale' so much I decided to write more stuff on her. This one's rather small, though, as I'm not sure where I'm going with her yet.

Lucy felt the weight of the recently purloined purse as the coach rolled through the streets. It was nice and heavy, even after splitting the contents with her two temporary assistants. Thankfully, the most chivalrous men were the ones with wealth to spare. She placed the purse in her pocket and relaxed. She glanced at the sleeve where she concealed her revolver and wondered  whether she should have killed the victim instead of knocking him out cold. She was certain she wasn’t recognised, as he didn’t see her, and he probably thought she was still bawling on the footpath. She couldn’t say the same for her accomplices, however, with them being directly in front of him the whole time. She didn’t let it bother her, though. With any luck, the mugee would have sustained a serious enough concussion for his memory to be unreliable. The coach drew to a stop, indicating she had arrived at her destination. Lucy got out, paid her driver only as much as she needed to, and bid him farewell as he drove off, leaving her to enter her home.

Even though I've only written just shy of a page about her, Lucy is a character that has probably been one of the hardest to figure out that I've ever done (Considering how little I've written, though, that's not saying much). I liked the idea of a thief who mainly relies on conning and relaxes and sips tea while knowing that the police will be barking up the wrong tree and I decided to see if I could make a character like that without making her a femme fatale. With that in mind, I had to give her a name. I decided a symbolic name wouldn't work too well in this case, as anyone who knew what it meant would look at it and wonder why no one has caught on to her already. As such, I decided to give her a name that sounded innocent, to make it slightly more understandable why no one suspects her. That's how I got the name Lucy, with my logic being that you wouldn't imagine Lucy from the Chronicles of Narnia holding a man at gunpoint and demanding his money. Speaking of holding someone at gunpoint, I had to figure out where to conceal a gun, as she has one on her a lot and having that be in plain view would kinda go against this character's MO. I went with her sleeve thanks to some constructive criticism pointing out that leg holstered guns aren't very easy to access considering the design of the dresses in the time period, and that dresses that gave you better access to the gun weren't considered socially acceptable . So as it turns out, there are a lot of things that go into a character that make up who they are.

Another piece on Cirrendale

This is based on a background event I put in one of my older works. Why I decided to flesh it out, I have no idea.

I take another swig out of my cup and stare at the setting sun through the open door. The bloody codger’s late again. He always goes on about how professional he is, but he never seems to be bothered with being on time. I glance at the rest of the people in the bar. A poor bloke trying to wash his worries away with spirits, a couple of guys trying to out-drink each other and a table devoted entirely to a game of Poker. One of them’s cheating so obviously it’s a miracle he hasn’t been ratted out. The pub door opens.

“Thank God!” I muttered to myself as I walk up to greet the man who finally arrived.

“Terribly sorry for being late, but I had forgot where I stored the artifact and had to go looking for it!” He apologised. I act as if I don’t want to punch him in the face for losing the artifact, and instead gave him a smile.

“Not a problem. Take a seat right here, I’ve gotten us drinks,” I gesture him to the table and sit down with him.

“So let’s see this artifact, shall we?” I say, getting to the point.

“Are you sure you want me to bring it out here?” He questions, worriedly looking around the room.

“We’re fine,” I reply. “No one’s paying attention to us.”

“Alright…” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a bracelet made of iron plates with ropes threaded through them.

“Lovely. And how much would that be?”

“Two-fifty.”

“Two-fifty!? The thing’s not bloody worth two-fifty!”

“In my opinion, it’s actually worth three-fifty, and I’m giving you a discount.”

“Well, you’re a bloody miser, then, aren’t you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept your voice down,” he demands, acting far more calm than he usually is. Probably something to do with the Webley Bull Dog revolver he has trained on me.

“Huh. Finally grew a backbone, did you?’ I jibe, slowly slipping my hands into my pockets.

“Look, I figured you wouldn’t like the number, so I brought something along to encourage you.”

“You’re right about the first bit.”

“So what’s it gonna be? Your life, or the money?”

I look around again. No one’s looking this way. So I speak up a bit.

“So you expect me to believe you’re going to shoot me in a crowded pub?”

“If I have to.” He was raising his voice to match mine, whether he knew it or not.

“And what’s gonna stop you from being arrested and executed?”

“...”

“Didn’t think that one through, did you?”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’ve got a loaded gun trained on you.” He was almost shouting at that point. Exactly what I want.

“You aren’t going to shoot that thing.” I taunt him, easing my own Bull Dog out of my pocket so he doesn’t notice.

“I can, will, and I’ll take everything you have after.” A few people gasp, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“In that case, you give me no choice but to defend myself,” I remark, shooting him three times in the chest. One for each lung, and one for that heart. At least, that’s where I assumed they ended up, anyway. I take the bracelet and walked out the door. I shouldn’t have to worry about the law. I’ll just say it was self defense and that I would have died if I didn’t do anything. I have a bar full of witness who saw what happened, they’ll agree with me. Being in custody for a while will be inconveniencing at best, but on the bright side, I got the bracelet for free.