(no subject)

[pedanther]

A few years ago I was in an online roleplaying game with a Weird West setting. As part of the set-up for the game, we were each asked to write three solo scenelets with our character: one demonstrating a character trait tending to lead to positive outcomes, one demonstrating a character trait tending to lead to negative outcomes, and one establishing the character's personal goals/mindset/the basis of a character arc.

I happened to be rereading the scenelets today, and I still like them, so I thought I'd stash them here in case I lose access to the site they're on.

The character is Wil Butler, a warlock troubleshooter.

His strength is that he is Traditional (the RPG system's term for someone who is adept in a magical tradition):

Wil stood outside the client’s bedroom door and listened to the quiet creaks of the house settling in the night.

From the darkness at the bottom of the stairwell came a louder creak.

“That’s the fourth step up from the bottom,” Wil called out; he’d been hearing it all day as he stood watch. “Somebody coming up?”

“Just me, from the kitchen,” came a timid female voice. “Thought you might like a cup of coffee to keep you wakeful.”

“A cup of coffee would be welcome,” Wil acknowledged.

The next sound that came from the stairwell was a loud fzap that gave the shadows purple highlights.

“Though I ought to mention,” Wil added, “that if you’re carrying something that isn’t coffee – poison, say, or a concealed dagger – you’ll set off the magical ward I placed on the fifth step up, and you’ll be paralyzed until I dispell the ward.”

From high above, another fzap, followed by the sound of something sliding down slate tiles.

“The skylight on the roof is also warded, of course. And it’s a very steep roof. I imagine it would be difficult to keep your balance up there if you’d lost the use of your muscles.”

The sliding noise ended abruptly. After a moment there came a very final sounding thud from ground level.

“Oh dear,” Wil said. “That sounded painful. Life can be so hazardous when you’re an assassin.” He grinned. “At least, if I have anything to say about it.”

His weakness is that he is Unlucky:

Another bullet spanged off Wil’s cover.

“You have two choices, Butler,” a rough voice called out, “we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way.”

“The easy way, that sounds nice,” Wil muttered as he rapidly assembled components from his pockets, “but I prefer my easy way, which involves putting these together like so, and lighting the fuse with… my last match, apparently.”

He checked the box again, but it stubbornly continued to contain only a single match. Oh well, at least the air was still this evening. He lit the match carefully, and held it to the fuse.

At the very moment he touched the match to the fuse, a sudden breeze sprang up, snuffing it out. Somewhere nearby, a piece of paper rattled in the breeze, sounding to Wil’s tense ears like a mocking chuckle.

“Hard way it is, then.” Wil pulled out his handguns and began checking them over carefully. Now was not the time for any more surprises like the empty matchbox.

This kind of thing was happening more often lately, he reflected. Maybe he was just getting comfortable and careless… maybe it was something else. Either way, he needed to go over his precautions and safeguards more carefully before each mission.

And maybe, he thought, as he hoisted his guns and prepared to return fire, I should start running with a group, so I’ll have someone to watch my back next time I have to do things the hard way.

And his mindset:

Wil sorted carefully through his collection of tokens and talismans, checking each for age or weakness. The stone that was a focus for a spell protecting against thieves, the glass chip that held the ward against illness, the carved fang that was linked to protection against wild animals, all checked out. The talisman that protected him against fast-moving bits of metal was a small piece of wood with a rune of power carved into it; the carving had been fresh and deep a few days ago, but now looked as if it had been rubbed smooth by years of wear. Wil thought the spell probably had some power left in it, but when it came to bullets safe was better than sorry; he made a mental note to make a fresh talisman before his next job came in.

The talisman against drowning, he observed with resignation, had gone wrong again, the once-smooth metal twisted and warped as if it had been held in a fire. Ever since that fateful day back East, he never had been able to make a charm against water that lasted more than a day without going wrong somehow. It was one of the reasons he’d headed out West, into the dry lands far away from the ocean and the great lakes. Safe was better than sorry.

The spell that protected him from notice by… that personage whose notice had been the other reason he’d headed out West… was, as far as he could tell, still standing firm. So the chuckle he’d thought he heard when his last match blew out had probably been his imagination.

Probably.

Still and all, it wouldn’t hurt to take precautions. Now then, which would be better: a charm that protected against ill-behaved wind, or a charm that ensured well-behaved flame? Which could he manage, with the materials at hand and the knowledge he already had? Of all the things he’d left behind in civilized lands, it was often the libraries he missed most. Of course, there were always spirits who could be invoked by a seeker of knowledge, but when he was worried about attracting notice it wouldn’t be wise to call attention to himself on the astral plane.

He sighed, and dug in his pack for the bundle of papers that held his notes on fire charms.