Lost and Found

I stood in front of the rather shabby looking reception desk waiting for the hostel owner, Evie, to return with my passport.

 At least the hostel was clean, which set it apart from many of the others I’d visited in my time backpacking around Australia. Innisfail hadn’t been on my travel agenda, but money was tight and this working hostel had received glowing reports from the backpacker community.

 Evie, middle-aged and rather plain, but friendly enough to make a person forget any other shortcomings, bustled back into the room and handed me my passport with a welcoming smile.

 “Welcome to River View Eilidh. We’re thrilled to have ya. Alright. Come on back then.” She grabbed a key from one of the hooks behind the counter and motioned for me to follow.

 Like most people, she pronounced my name ‘Ee-lid’ instead of ‘Ae-lee’ but I was well used to people struggling with the Celtic spelling.

 I followed her down the small corridor toward the back of the building complex.

 “Ear ya go.” She paused in front of a door with the number 5 painted on it. “Ye’r a lucky one! This room sleeps six but t’night ye’r pat malone.” She handed me the key. “Hooroo then. I’ll catch ya on the sunny side. Work starts around five so be sharpish with yer brekkie.”

 She left and I let myself into the small spartan room. Like the reception, it was clean and functional, but I was knackered from the long journey. I dropped my bag next to the closest bunk, kicked off my shoes and fell into a grateful slumber.

 5 a.m. arrived far too soon. The stomping of heavy work boots past my door woke me.

 “Shit!” I grabbed my phone from the pocket of my bag and grimaced. ‘4;45’ glared up at me from the screen.

 “Double shit!” There’d be no time for the shower I so desperately wanted. For once I was glad I’d slept in my clothes. They were a little creased, but they’d do — traditional backpacker chic.

 I pulled a brush through my hair and slapped on some deodorant. Hopefully, the work would be outdoors so no one would notice my less than sociable hygiene.

 Stuffing my wallet, passport, inhaler, and room key in my pocket, I scurried from the room and followed the sound of clattering dishes and mumbled conversation.

 Breakfast, or ‘brekkie’ as Evie had called it, was a chaotic affair. I found the hostel kitchen outside underneath the communal deck. The hostel provided free pancakes and syrup each morning, and at least twelve, sleepy-eyed, backpackers were jostling for room at the hotplate.

 “Here you go.” I turned to find a tall, dark-haired girl smiling down at me. Before I could respond, she handed me a shiny, green apple.

 “I…erm…thanks!”

 “Don’t worry. I’m not a morning person either. Usually, I’d be wallowing in a cup of coffee right about now.” She grinned and I found myself grinning back.

 “You said ‘usually,’ what’s different about today? …I’m Eilidh by the way.” I took a grateful bite of the apple and followed the girl over to a nearby picnic bench.

 “I’m Annie. It’s nice to meet you!” She sat down at the table, tucking her legs up on the bench beside her. “I haven’t actually been to sleep yet.”

 “Well, that would certainly do it!” I laughed, taking a seat.

 By the time breakfast was finished, it was time to leave for work. Annie had told me she worked for a building contractor who needed an extra hand on his cleaning crew.

 A cyclone had swept through the area only a week or two earlier. Thankfully, no lives were lost, but the damage to buildings and crops had been considerable.

 She asked if I wanted to give it a go and I gladly accepted. Starting new jobs was always a little stressful, it’d be nice to have a friendly face there to show me the ropes.

 Five minutes later, we jumped into the back of a battered-looking flatbed truck and set off to the site.

 We drew up outside a huge, blue-washed house about twenty minutes later. Annie climbed down from the back of the truck, holding a hand out to help me down.

 “I envy you your long legs right now,” I grumbled. Annie laughed.

 “Trust me, you wouldn’t be saying that if you’d ever had to take them shopping for jeans!”

 The contractor walked around the truck to where we stood.

 “Okay girls. It’s hard yacka, but it’s good honest work. I’m all for equality, so don’t expect to be treated different for bein sheilas.”

 I nodded and he beamed at me.

 “Right then! Smoko’s at ten, any questions just ask Warri. He’s the big blackfella…bit of a tightarse, but fair dinkum. He’ll see ya right. Annie here can tell ya what’s what, she’s a corker and it’s not her first roo shoot.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Hooroo then. I’ll catch ya later on.”

 I was still translating that mouthful, as he jumped back into the truck and sped off down the street, windows down and music blaring.

 “Is he…always like that?”

 Annie laughed again. “Jackson’s a little rough around the edges, but his heart’s in the right place. Come on, I’ll show you where to start.”

 The job involved shoveling cyclone debris and rubble into wheelbarrows and then emptying them into a large, battered, blue skip. The cyclone had really done a number on the house. The roof was lying in a smashed pile in the back garden, and the smell of damp, rotting plaster inside the house was unpleasantly pervasive. I found I had to plan my work to include regular fresh-air breaks to avoid feeling sick.

 The morning was uneventful, aside from an encounter with a giant huntsman spider. Annie had screamed her lungs out from where she was working in one of the back rooms. Warri and I dashed to her aid, only to find her, perched on a rickety wooden chair, brandishing a broom at the poor, terrified creature.

 Warrigal Anggamundi, Warri for short, was a stoic sort of man. He rolled his eyes and gently took the brush from the shrieking girl, shooing the impressively-huge spider out into the garden and effectively ending the drama.

 Lunchtime came, but I’d only managed to bring a cereal bar which I’d snagged from the hostel vending machine.

 Leaving the others to their sandwiches, I pocketed my less than appetising lunch and headed back out into the garden to explore some of the battered outbuildings.

 I loved nature, even the eight-legged variety, so I was hoping to find more unusual creatures hiding in the outbuilding’s dusty interiors.

 The first two I poked my head into were pretty uninteresting, lots of cobwebs, but no captivating fauna. The third one looked as dull as the other two at first, it had a few broken bottles, some water-damaged children’s toys and a large pile of debris from where the roof had caved in.

 I was about to leave and move on to the next when a small movement caught my eye. I took a couple of steps into the room, and heard a snuffling noise coming from behind the pile of broken tiles and cracked timber.

 “Hello.” My voice was barely a whisper as I didn’t want to scare whatever was back there. I skirted the pile, but at first, all I could see was yet more rubbish. I slowly reached my phone out of my trouser pocket and turned the torch on.

 The beam of light illuminated a large pair of scared, yellow eyes.

 “It’s okay…I won’t hurt you.” The creature cringed back, pressing itself tightly into the corner of the room with a terrified high-pitched whine.

 Remembering the cereal bar in my pocket, I unwrapped it and broke a piece off, gently tossing it over to the leaf litter at the creature’s feet. At first, it hissed at the offering, but after a moment or two, it gave a long deep sniff.

 Not taking its large eyes off me, it leaned forward and slurped up the piece. Delighted at my success, I broke off a second piece and tossed it over. This time, I aimed for directly under the hole left by the collapsed roof. The corner was dingy, so it had been hard to make the creature out. I’d guessed that it must be some kind of dog because of its long fur and pointed snout, but as it moved into the pool of light my breath caught in my lungs.

 What on earth was it?! It had long dark fur much like a dog, but that’s where the canine similarity well and truly ended. Its long-pointed snout was covered in greenish scales, like those of a crocodile and its feet were webbed like a duck’s. Its tail was long and flowing like that of a horse, and it had two large, grey tusks protruding from beneath its upper lip. It was like someone had got their hands on the god clay, and gone to town with it.

 I heard Annie calling my name outside but I didn’t want to chance leaving, in case the strange creature disappeared before I could show it to her. I broke off another piece and threw it to the creature to distract it, and called Annie’s name.

 The creature flinched at the sound but it was clearly starving and it pounced on the third piece dragging it back a couple of steps into the shadows before devouring it with gusto.

 Annie appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Warri who must have joined the search when Annie failed to find me.

 “Eilidh? What are you doing in here?” Annie glanced nervously about, no doubt looking for more man-eating spiders.

 “I found something…something strange. Look…” I broke off another piece of the quickly dwindling cereal bar and tossed it again into the pool of light.

 There was a short pause and then one webbed foot poked into view. Another pause then, forgetting its fear in the face of its hunger, the creature trotted forward to claim its sticky, honey-coated prize.

 “Struth! Take a breather for a sanga and a cold tinny, come back an there ya are, mad as a cut snake, feeding a frickin Bunyip!”

 Warrigal’s eyes were wide as saucers as he stared in horror at the small scruffy-looking creature. “That things oldies’d spit the dummy if they found ya.”

 “Feeding a what?”

 “Bunyip…Dangerous fellas that live deep in billabong country. Must’a bin dropped ere by accident when the willy-willy passed through.”

 Annie and I both looked at the odd little creature. He didn’t look dangerous in the least. Even his little tusks were dull at the ends.

 “Can’t stay here. Got a crate in back, should fit the little bugger though.”

 I felt a surge of fear for the poor little thing.

 “You aren’t going to…hurt him?” It was meant to be a statement but it came out more like a plea.

 “Nah. I’ll jes drop the ankle-biter back off where his oldies’ll find him. They jes tryin ta live, same as us folks.”

 Half an hour later with the baby bunyip secure in his makeshift cage, Warri calmly waved goodbye and headed off in search of a suitable billabong.

 Annie and I stood in stunned silence for a few minutes just trying to process what we’d seen.

 “No one will ever believe us back home you know.” Annie ruefully said at last.

 “I’m not even sure I believe us!?” I replied with a shrug and a smile. “So bunyips really exist then…I wonder what tomorrow will bring?”

 “As long as it’s not another huge hairy spider then I’m happy!” We both burst into fits of giggles, grabbed our shovels, and went back to work.


If you enjoyed reading my work and would like to see more of the same, please also consider donating to my Kofi fund via the following link… https://ko-fi.com/bfauthor all purchases and donations are very much appreciated.

©Bernadetteflynnauthor.com 2019

Coming soon…

Karen Chance’s new book – due to hit the shelves on 10th December. The Cassandra Palmer and Dorina Basarab series are without doubt two of the best I’ve ever read. Karen Chance is a wonder and has remained one of my all-time favourite author’s for more than a decade now. Her character and plotline creation are second to none. Definitely well worth a read.

Recommended Reading: The Witch’s Touch

Having been given the privilege of reviewing this soon to be released short story by Rosie Wylor-Owen, I can whole heartedly recommend it for anyone who enjoys the urban fantasy genre. Nice characters, fantastic imagery and all in all a great little story!




Criminals are going missing. Felons or not, Detective Meeks is duty-bound to find them, with little to go on but a suspicious encounter between the latest missing person and a local business owner. As the case unravels, Meeks struggles to make sense of a world he thought he understood. Yet this twist of fate could be his chance to truly making a difference to the community he holds dear.

Amanda Solanke is used to making waves, but never with the police. The last person to see the latest missing criminal, she is dragged to the heart of a police investigation. A small business owner in the eyes of the community, behind closed doors Amanda and her partner Leona guard a magical secret. The closer they are watched, the closer Amanda and Leona come to facing the ultimate danger: exposure.


This short story will be released on 22.03.18 but is available for pre-order now for the bargain price of £0.99!!

Amazon link:

The Witch’s Touch https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BH6MJW3/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_SLgSAbMY7AFJR

Twin Mischief

[The following is an excerpt from the first chapter of my upcoming urban fantasy novel, (still awaiting its proper title) which I hope to have completed by the end of this year, all things going to plan 🙂 I hope you enjoy it!!]

It was the sunlight that woke me, or at least what passed for sunlight in Undercity.
In reality, what had woken me was more like the sallow amber glow from the cast iron gas street light that hung from its rusty chain just outside of my bedroom skylight.
Being in the constant shadow of Altéga, or ‘The Immortal City of Altéga,’ at least to those of the ‘Gifted’ classes whose families hadn’t spent the last eight or so fairly uncomfortable generations, scraping out a meagre existence beneath the vast shadow cast by its floating, oh so majestic, several thousand-ton bulk.
Yes, with all of that rock floating fifteen or so meters above your head natural sunlight was in pitifully short supply.
The little that did manage to shine beneath the rim of the floating city above only did so for a few short hours a day when the sun was in the right position in the sky. Even then, its rays only covered a small strip of land at the very perimeter of Undercity.
This fortunate area was, by necessity, comprised solely of poor quality fruit and vegetable allotments which yearly tried, and inevitably failed, to provide food for the SUB families who tended them, and the inner-city residents who lived their whole lives solely by gas and candlelight.
SUBs, or sub magical beings, were a section of the supernatural community who, although innately magical by birth, had minimal to zero actual usable powers. Trust me this was definitely not a title of our own choosing but rather one used, to great effect, to create a crystal-clear divide between us and the magically ‘gifted’ world floating above our heads.
The title also came with its own neat little set of rules and restrictions, including the one dictating that no SUB was to be allowed to build or farm outside of the shadow cast by Altéga. Unfair…totally! But then we wouldn’t want the gifted on high in their gilded towers to suffer the supreme insult of an interrupted view of the countryside surrounding the city…especially not by lowly creatures such as ourselves.
Okay so bitter ranting aside, the SUB community itself was one of warmth, friendship and love which in my opinion beats gilded cages and loveless political alliances hands down.
For the young ones like myself, who had spent their entire lives in the Undercity, we didn’t really know any different.
Passes to Altéga were incredibly rare so most of us (black market traders aside) had only visited the Immortal City once, on the morning of our fifth birthday, in order to be officially registered on the Census of Supernatural Beings.
Stretching with a loud jaw-cracking yawn I threw back the covers and sat up. Swinging my legs off of the bed, I winced a little as my bare toes came into contact with the cold floor.
Stuffing my feet into my well-worn wool slippers I shuffled out of the door and down the narrow flight of stairs to the small family bathroom that I shared with my parents and eight raucous siblings.
As the eldest child, I at least got the luxury of a loft room all to myself up in the eaves of the house, which when you have eight younger siblings was a solid must-have.
Sadly, the house in which we lived only had room for one bathroom. A fact that meant that I wasn’t altogether surprised when I tried the door handle and found it firmly locked.
‘Are you going to be long?’ I called, pulling my heavy dressing gown tighter to ward off the early morning chill that was still in the air.
Nothing. Raising my hand, I knocked the door but my only response was the low sound of badly muffled giggling coming from inside.
‘Farlan, Brodie…I know you are in there, open the door. I have to get ready for work or I’ll be late to open the shop.’ Putting my ear to the door I heard what sounded very much like a scuffle, followed by a pained squeak before Farlan’s high-pitched voice piped up from the other side of the door confirming my previous suspicions.
‘Ah will ainlie open th’ door if ye promise ye willnae be aff tellin Mom aboot Brodie’s hair.’ I rolled my eyes skyward and sighed deeply.
Eight-year-old Farlan fancied himself a budding scientist and was continually getting himself into trouble with his fantastic concoctions and wild experiments. Brody, his twin brother, and partner in crime had the unfortunate habit of being the test subject of said experiments with a range of rather colourful outcomes.
‘OK fine, just let me in and I’ll see if there is anything to be done before Mom gets back from Mrs Delfries.’
There was another whispered exchange and then the old brass key finally turned and the door opened up a crack.
One bright green eye appeared in the opening scanning to make sure the coast was clear before the door was whipped open and I was yanked through it into the room beyond.
The door closed and with a snick the lock was firmly back in place, leaving the three of us standing in total darkness.
‘Farlan, it might be easier for me to help Brodie if I could actually see him.’ I said as patiently as I was able to manage at 6 am whilst standing in the freezing cold in my nightwear.
I stubbed my toe on the heavy oak dresser cursing under my breath as I attempted to find the light cord.
‘Ye hae tae actually say ‘I promise’ foremaist or it daesn’t coont!’ his tone was desperate now and I felt a flicker of worry spark to life. It must be really serious this time as normally the twins just accepted their punishments with a cheeky smile and went right back to terrorising the family two minutes later.
‘Brodie, are you hurt?’ I asked the darkened room not knowing exactly where to direct my question in the pitch black.
‘Na a’m a’richt Penny. Bit Mom is aff tae hae a fit whin she sees me if ye cannae help.’ His words were muffled but he sounded alright and my worry faded again. With another resigned sigh, I turned to where I thought Farlan had been standing.
‘Fine. I promise that I won’t tell Mom. Now, can you turn the blessed light on so I can actually see what mess you have made of your brother this time.’ From his silence, I could tell he was carefully weighing the truth of my words but then a moment later the light popped on, blinding us all for a second or two before revealing a small form draped head to foot in a large fluffy white bath towel.
‘Brodie. I’m assuming that your nefarious brother hasn’t turned you into a bath towel so let’s have that off of you and take a look at the damage.’ Farlan smothered a giggle from just behind my shoulder and I heard Brodie give a long-resigned sigh. He raised the towel a couple of inches, exposing a small pair of brown, fur-covered feet.
‘Brodie whilst the expectation is thrilling I really do have to get ready for work now so let’s speed things up a bit shall we.’
‘Dae ye promise nae tae laugh Penny?’ Brodie whined plaintively.
‘I promise I’ll skelp your behind for you if you make me any later for work!’ my voice was stern but I had to fight a small smile all the same.
The towel finally began to lift again exposing brown furry legs to match the feet and as the towel rose higher, I was instantly glad that I hadn’t actually promised not to laugh.
From the knobbly knees up my embarrassed looking little brother was bright blue!
At this point, I should probably explain that my family and I are a little different from most other families, even in the Undercity.
When I was very small Muira and Tavish McBryde found me on their front porch with only a wicker basket and a worn blue blanket.
There was no indication at all of who had left me there, why or where I had come from not even a note with my name on it.
Fortunately for me, being the kind-hearted people that they are, the McBryde’s without a moment’s hesitation took me into their home and decided to raise me as one of their own.
That day 28 years ago I got a new name ‘Hapenny,’ or Penny for short, named for the most treasured of their possessions and became their first child (this was several years before the first of my younger siblings arrived on the scene)
Muira and Tavish or Mom and Dad as I had always called them were broonies, an innately magical people whose clans mostly hail from Scotland or Ireland.
Broonies are small in stature with soft brown fur covering most of their bodies, large noses, pointed ears and an almost magical affinity for housework and metalsmithing. They are also an incredibly long-lived race with individuals often spanning several human generations or more in a single lifetime.
Dad always told us in bedtime stories and around the cooking fire that his family line were descended from Broonie Kings and that his family had, at one point in time, sat at the feet of the Goddess Brigid of the Celtic peoples as her loyal servants and trusted advisors.
How much of this tale was true I could never be sure though, as broonies are also incredibly fond of a good yarn when the moment calls for it.
It is safe to say though that my adoptive family has deep roots that stretch very far back into history and that this is something they are inordinately proud of and happy to talk about at length.
‘Descended from Broonie kings huh.’ I muttered to myself as I took in the bedraggled looking fluffy blue creature in front of me.
My comment immediately sent Farlan off into peals of raucous laughter and he merrily rolled around the floor for a moment or two, before his brother snarled and dived on top of him and yet another scuffle ensued. Wading into the middle I tried my best to separate them
‘Argh! Brodie did you just bite me?! Right, that’s enough from the both of you!’ I grabbed a still giggling Farlan from the midst of the wild tangle of flailing furry limbs, unlocked the bathroom door, and pushed him out into the corridor shutting and locking it again before he could push his way back inside for round two.
I turned to Brodie with a scowl on my face but at the sight of his watering eyes, I felt my expression soften. Walking over I patted him on his furry blue head.
‘It’s alright Brodie…really. I’m sure a little salt, lemon and water and a couple of baths will have you back to your normal handsome self in no time at all.’ He smiled at that, brushing a hand over his face and bounced to his feet.
‘Weel let’s git aboot it then. Farlan ‘n’ ay are gauen huntin fer gudgeon ower at th’ Marl Hole wi’ th’ Fitzwilliam twins. An ah dinnae want tae be late!’
Even though I spent every day with them, the sheer changeability of broonies never failed to amaze me.
Like many of the innately magical, their emotions could turn on the head of a pin, one second elated the next furious.
It definitely made for entertaining family gatherings that was for sure!

The Birth Of A Character

I see posts in creative writing groups all the time, where people are asking for advice on how to create a realistic character. Even naming characters seems to be something that causes many writers a lot of trouble. I’m obviously one of the fortunate ones. For me, character creation has always been one of the simplest and most diverting parts of the whole writing experience.

Characters come to me in a number of ways. Some pop into being at the discovery of a name that I like, others from a picture on the internet, a face on tv, or even courtesy of an interesting looking stranger in the queue at the local supermarket.

The character I am going to discuss today came into being as part of one of my main character’s back story, in the urban fantasy trilogy that I am currently working on. I am going to attempt to put the random workings of my mind into words so that you can see exactly how I fleshed this particular man out.

Nico, the male lead in my trilogy, is a vampire, and part of his backstory is that he grew up as an orphan on the streets of Renaissance Rome. To give Nico a proper backstory I needed to not only cover his post-transition vampire life but also his human roots, as both played a key part in making him the person that he is today.


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In my mind, for an orphan to have a chance at surviving in this era, he would either need to become a beggar, and rely on the limited charity of others, a thief and steal in order to feed himself or be taken on as cheap child labour by either a tradesman or local family to work for his meals and shelter. In Nico’s case, I decided that I wanted him to be taken on by a tradesman as the other two options have been covered rather a lot in vampire fiction, and I wanted to try something a little different.

So at this point, I needed to create a tradesman to fill the role. I already know that Nico succumbs to influenza and scarlet fever when he is 9 years old (In my books vampires are a little different in that their immortality only sets in once they reach their physical peak, which in Nico’s case is at 32 years old)

I also know that the reason that Nico contracts these fatal illnesses is due to his terrible living conditions, ergo the tradesman isn’t looking after him very well. I am picturing sleeping in a damp, cold and musty out building with barely enough food to keep him alive and little to no nutrients in his diet to help ward off illness. Clearly, the tradesman is not a nice person, to treat any child in this manner.

Okay so now we need a suitable trade. The picture that is building in my mind is of a cruel, oafish man. A hedonistic personality, every penny he earns goes towards his own indulgence and he won’t spare any to look to the comfort of his ward.

“There are plenty of motherless urchins to take the boy’s place if he can’t hack the work after all.” He mumbled through a mouthful of food, finishing his rare bit of profound insight off with a loud, toe-curling belch, and absently rubbing a thick meaty hand over his grotesquely swollen paunch. 


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At this point, we need a first name, so I spend a few minutes looking up the meanings behind Italian boys names until I find one that fits (obviously any name will do, but I like having an appropriate meaning thrown in there for my own personal enjoyment where possible) The name that I eventually settle on is ‘Orfeo’ which means deprived or darkness.

Orfeo’s surname is a different matter because in his case he is a tradesman and tradesman way back when often went by the name of their particular trade. Another few minutes on google secures me a list of renaissance era trades and I can get to work picking out his work. I round it down to four possible jobs; scrap seller, soap Maker, grave digger or casket maker. Grave digger has been done quite a few times before and it’s a little obvious for my taste. Casket maker, while it would be morbidly appropriate for this man to profit off others misery, it implies some level of skill which I’m not sure an oaf like Orfeo would possess.

This leaves us with scrap seller or soap maker. Scrap seller would work just fine but soap is just becoming popular in Italy at this point in time so it’s very current and it’s a wonderfully unpleasant job full of all the horrid smells of rendering fat and deadly eye watering lye fumes, as well as awful burns if you aren’t careful enough with what you are doing. Definitely not the place for a small child. The Italian name for a soap seller at this point in time was ‘Saponaio’ so now we have an appropriate surname for our villain.

At this point, all that is left to do is to take all that we have learned so far and fill in the rest of the blanks…


Appearance    

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Hair – probably thinning and greasy from being around the soap fumes all the time. Add to this that he is the kind of man who wouldn’t use soap himself as he knows what goes into it and is too ignorant to realise the benefits. He would instead take delight in selling his concoctions to the well-to-do’s picturing their faces if they ever saw what disgusting things he put into each batch.

Eyes – He is Mediterranean in appearance so I’m going to go with brown coloured eyes. In his case quite none descript (just like the rest of him) probably a little glazed and unfocused as a result of his hedonistic lifestyle and love of wine.

Build – Again his hedonistic lifestyle comes into play here giving him a rather overweight and meaty appearance. This fits well with his oafish and lazy attitude but also makes him someone that my male lead would fear as a small child. A thump from one of his meaty fists would cause considerable pain and damage. Orfeo may even use his considerable bulk to pin the child against the wall, crushing him until he struggled to breathe before giving him a smack to the back of the head and sending him back to work.

Height – The average height for a renaissance male was around 5ft 5 inches (1.65m) but I see him as a little below average (the antithesis of an attractive male specimen at the time) maybe coming in around the 5ft (1.52m) mark. Still large enough to terrify a small child, but small enough to be unable to carry on his hard-man persona in the company of other adults. In adult circles he would most likely simper and whine to wheedle what he wants, ingratiating himself shamelessly while gritting his teeth the entire time and hating all those who he believes feels superior to him (so basically everyone)

Clothing – Badly kept but in an approximation of the latest fashion. This man clearly has no sense of personal hygiene or pride in his appearance but at the same time, he wants to fit into the society of his social betters to get access to their luxury and money in order to fund his own hedonistic pursuits. His clothes would also carry the pervasive and unpleasant scent of rendered fat so his peers would likely not want to stand too close to him, a fact that he would also be totally aware of which would add to his hatred of them all.

Health – Not good would be an understatement, but as unappealing as his poor hygiene, inevitable STD symptoms and gout might make him he is lucky and manages to avoid most of the more serious maladies of the era, aside from the visible scars from where he survived smallpox as a child.

As you can see, with each new descriptive detail comes a new facet to your character’s personality, and there are lots more details that can be uncovered but if I went through them all in this post we’d be here all day!!

The real key is to try and put yourself into the mindset of your character and work out how each factor would make him or her feel/act. Before long you will have a fully fleshed out and very believable character to add to your work. If you need additional prompts then search out one of the countless character questionnaires online and try to work your way through answering it from the point of view of your developing character.

Character development should be fun and rewarding. The really good ones can even give you further ideas for your story as they grow. The entirety of this character development brainstorm took me well under an hour, and I had the added complication of fitting him into my male leads backstory on top. Imagine what you could achieve in the course of just one day!!

Happy writing all :}


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