Meanwhile, touching a bit on what I was saying a few posts back about creating Context to create better Concepts, here is a bit of background info I wrote up for the "Warrior" before designing. I had a lot of fun thinking about the world in which he lives, with what kind of people he associates and even the kinds of things they might do in their free time. It was important to me to know what was important to the characters so I could let the stream of imagery that began to form in my head as I wrote dictate what came out on paper!
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Neither the old warrior’s deep battle scars, his deeply cracked and weathered skin nor the steadiness of his weapon hand were meritorious enough to keep him his place among the Dust Eaters. He had not as much strength left in his lungs as the others, but his pike still moved as deftly as it had in the days he was called “The Great Tooth”. It was not yet his time, he knew, but it was his spoils they wanted.
Once a man reached the age of encumbrance, when his usefulness was overshadowed by his inability to keep up with the Sweep, his place of honor along with all of his spoils – the source of a Dust Eater’s pride - were resigned.
All a man had in the lower city were his spoils. Passed down by oral law since the first days of the storms, the spoils of a Sweep were split equally between those in a hunting pack. A hunter who made a killing blow always received first pick, after which sticks were thrown to determine the order of those awaiting their share. This time, however, the old warrior would be allowed to keep all of the spoils of the hunt; his final hunt…a mercy hunt. Reluctant youths new to the pack – Green Eaters - would be commanded to take him beyond the safety of the Holes, into the Sweeping grounds—not too far out—and ceremoniously witness his final kill. And as it was generally known…it was during this time that the rest of a man’s spoils were being ravaged, repossessed and redistributed.
The warrior’s thick hands gripped the granular film that caked the curved wall. He felt at peace as he moved through the tunnels he knew so well; a hollow shell of dust and sand layered after generations of storms, held together by the water that seldom fell from the sky these days…and the blood of those who met the storms unprepared.
Moonlight signaled the tunnel’s end and led out into the wide expanses surrounding the lower city. The sky was a slate gray as the dust from the previous night’s storm still filled the air. The winds that came with it were now gentle and cool against the old warrior’s stony face. He knew the winding tunnels of the holes like he knew the cracks on the back of his dry hands and he chose this tunnel for a reason.
The three Green Eaters behind him were slow to follow, drunk on the Lavice blood that filled the bladders they carried over their shoulders. He could hear their voices in the dark expanse behind him, laughing, cursing and making light of the youth they could still afford to squander…severely betraying their inexperience.
“Rotten Tooth!” he heard one of the three call from the darkness, “Wait for us! We want to see how an old man’s honor dies!” Flecks of dust settled like snow atop the mouth of the hole as the old warrior laid himself flush against the outer wall and waited. His hands turned red as he strangled the neck of his pike.
With his first stroke a gloved hand was removed from an arm, the first to peak through the mouth of the hole, like a tongue, now red and flailing. The body of the man emerged quickly after, startled and panicked, but was quickly silenced as the warrior’s second stroke left a gaping hole where his head has been. The remaining two were drunk, but now well enough aware of their companion’s fate to have at least drawn their weapons before they stepped out to their death.
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