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Post by Aquamarine on Dec 10, 2011 22:10:04 GMT -5
Choose a setting, object, or character from one of the lists below and describe it in a reply to this thread. Try using sensory details (details that appeal to the five senses: what can I hear/smell/see/taste/touch?) to bring it to life. Focus on describing the object -- a character doesn't necessarily need to be in the description at all. Remember, your description of an object could be very different from someone else's description of the same one. It all depends on the details you choose and how you picture the item. You may not use dialogue in this activity. Describe at least one item from each section of the list to earn the Illustrator achievement badge for your profile. If you'd like in-depth critique on this activity, feel free to ask for it. Settings- on top of the abbey wall at sunrise
- the abbey cellars in the winter
- a path in the northlands at night
- the seashore near Salamandastron in the summer
- the Dibbun dormitories during the daytime
Objects- a blue bowl
- the Friar's old habit
- shrimp and hotroot soup
- a lost sandal
- an otter's sling and stonepouch
Characters- an old hare
- a rank-and-file vermin soldier
- a brave Badger Lord
- a baby mouse
- a cheerful squirrel
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Post by Otus Shortwing on Feb 10, 2014 13:45:12 GMT -5
I want the pretty badge don't judge me
Setting: the abbey cellars in the winter The hush of snow lay upon Redwall Abbey, so deep a silence that every falling flake made a gentle shh as it lighted upon its brothers and sisters. Fires burned low in the dormitories, glowing silently as a last vestige of warmth. A final night candle was blown out in the abbot's chambers as he went to sleep, satisfied that his beloved abbey was safely tucked in for the night. But a few beasts were not tucked in. Through a thick oaken door outside the kitchens, down the worn stairs, was a glow of cheery light. A hearty song burst forth from the stairwell. Four seasoned veterans relived the glory days below in the cellars, sharing tankards of ale and carousing the night chills away. Footpaws stomped, claws made a merry tapdance on the barrels in time to the beat, and a worn reed flute that had seen--and heard--better days tooted out the melody. Dustmotes, kicked up by the unaccustomed activity, gave ambiance to the small gathering. Winter was forgotten amidst fellowship, fun, and fine drink.
Object: shrimp and hotroot soup Hot from the pot, boil and bubble, with fiendish spice and shrimps so nice, eat it down, me 'earties, eat it down. Red oily spots 'round the edges do gather, waiting for slurps. 'otroot flecks swirl and twirl down below, one last dance before it's down the hatch. Big ol' spoon splashes on in, wooden and slick fra' years in the pot with the 'ot, 'ot soup. On'y an otter knows what can be smooth as silk and fierce as fox teeths--'otroot soup, in the mouth, down the throat, in the belly medley!
Character: a rank-and-file vermin soldier D'ye s'ppose they has names, the vermin we kills? They're naught to us but a twisted nose, a dirty face, a dead eye in the socket. A sharp claw, a cruel laugh turned scream, an' a thud as they fall with a spear t'th'eart. Did they has mums'n'dads once? Somebeast as loved them when their eyes were still babe-blue and full o' laughter, afore somethin' scarred that mother-loved face and deadened one eye? Were they clean once, afore whipcracks and seasons of forced marches through the mud and the snow and the wind and the rain and the dry, dry dust o'th'road caked 'em up with filth so as their own mums wouldn't ha' known 'em? Did their young blood run wild in fear when they heard the keen of the storm in the treetops, afore they knew what real fear was, afore their blood was spilled on the ground at me paws? Were they once 'appy, and sang for joy? Did they love once? Were they loved?
Were they just like us, once upon some time ago?
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Post by Aquamarine on Feb 13, 2014 15:23:19 GMT -5
There is no judgement here, Ottie. Looks great -- I like the zooming in you used in the first one, though I think you could've spent a little more time describing the cellars. Love the voices on the second two, especially the past reflectiveness of the last one. One badge coming right up!
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Arissae
Busy Dibbun
Returning Newbie
Posts: 26
Main: Arissae Wisppaw
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Post by Arissae on Mar 11, 2016 7:37:27 GMT -5
Scene: The path barely deserves the name; it's more a "sparsely-used, slightly-worn track" and the flickering light of a lantern is barely enough to keep you from wandering off into the wilderness. It all looks the same out here--pale green grass struggles to poke through hardened ground and assert itself among the boulders that punctuate the flat landscape. But then again, almost everything looks the same under the blanket of a moonless night. The stars remain steady points above you, allowing you to reassure yourself that you're traveling in the right direction. It's not particularly windy--lucky you--but the cold still hovers in the air, seeping under your cloak, gripping your nose and ears and the tip of your tail like a vise, and promising snow: if not tomorrow, then soon. You have to periodically switch the lantern from paw to paw--the cold metal numbs your paws through your threadbare gloves even more than the cold air. The air is fresh and clean, at least, with the slight smell of frozen--broken--plants hovering in the air, even if inhaling stings your nose and the back of your throat. Your footpaws hardly make a sound, but the lantern clinks slightly as it sways with your steps. You're alone, and you know you're exposed, but it can't be helped. You pull your rough woolen cloak tighter around yourself and press on. (a path in the northlands at night)
Object: It's smooth under your paws, mostly, aside from a few uneven bits where the cerulean glaze must have dripped in the kiln, and that chip in the rim where your little sister dropped it on the floor. The inside is slightly stained from years of containing porridge and shrimp and hotroot soup and whatever else you can think of, but you know it's clean--all you can smell on it is a faint whiff of soap. The glaze is starting to crack in places--it comes with the age--and you can see that underneath, the pottery is an earthy reddish-brown. With a slight sigh, you drop several handfuls of candied chestnuts into it. It probably shouldn't be used for normal food anymore, but you can't quite bring yourself to retire it completely. (You're not supposed to have food in the dormitories, either, but you pop one of the sweets into your mouth and then hide the bowl behind your bed as the treat gives way under your teeth and the honeyed, nutty flavor seeps over your tongue.) (a blue bowl)
Character: He still wears his pink regimental vest complete with all fourteen medals and ribbons every day, even if he's just napping in a wheelbarrow in the orchard, smelling like fruit and sunlight and little musty because he won't wash the vest for fear of fading the color. (Sis Gemima, who's in charge the of orchards, can never resist his charm, and so he generally ends up with strawberry juice or apple bits in his whiskers.) He's on the portly side now--his chest is still broad, but his waistline has broadened to meet it, maybe exceed it--but his legs are still long and his sleek black cane is just for show (he's always twirling it or sweeping it about like a sword more than using it to walk) and he insists he can still outrun and out-fight any impertinent youngster who thinks differently (but there's no time for a race now, of course; he's just eaten, you see, and it's bad form to not let your food digest properly if you can help it, otherwise you'd be insulting the chef, or Mother Nature herself; and we can't have that). His hearing might be going, because he speaks a little louder than he used to (but you're not sure; maybe he's just overcompensating in volume for what he lacks in commanding presence now, though you'll always be quick to reassure him he's a dashing, commandeering figure; a born leader and war hero). The Dibbuns who like to sit on his lap, in the Orchard in the summer or in the Grand Hall in the winter, don't seem to mind, and still laugh and cheer just as loud at his outrageous stories--maybe a little louder than they used to, to make sure he hears them. His eyesight might be fading now, too, because you see his monocle in place on his face more and more, whereas before it mostly hung from its clip on his vest, and he lets his ears hang in front of his eyes now, so he can say the reason he thought the hedgehog was a squirrel was that pesky eartip in his eye, impersonating a tail. The badgermum looks at him with a mixture of fondness and concern, and he waves his cane at her and tuts whenever he catches that gaze. His fur is getting lighter, from a brownish-cream to a pure white, but he doesn't mind. Apparently it goes better with his vest that way. (an old hare)
OOC: Yes, maybe I... worked around... the "no dialogue" thing. *coughs* But dang, this was fun. Been a while since I've done something like this.
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Post by Aquamarine on Mar 12, 2016 19:06:58 GMT -5
You have fantastic attention to detail, Arissae, and the moods you set with these are lovely. I especially enjoyed the characterization of the old hare -- your dialogue work-around worked very well with the description. I've added the illustrator badge to your profile.
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Post by Burfle, Brookfill & Madrigal on Sept 6, 2016 18:20:43 GMT -5
Setting: (a path in the northlands at night)
A harsh wind asserts itself over the small winding trail of dirt and stone, buffeting any weary traveller who trudges the rocky and uneven road. The steep hill on which the track lies gives a view over the surrounding country, only just visible through the gloom of night to eyes that are adjusted to darkness. The crunch of loose rock underpaw is the only company found on this journey, aside from the occasional large rock that is passed or an over-friendly thistle that grasps at passing paws and cloak hems. A field of flowers nears with every step, the smell unfamiliar to you, but pleasing nonetheless. It is a sight that breaks the monotony of spiky grass that covers the hillside surrounding the path and lends strength to tired footpaws on the ascent. The wind dies down suddenly, a lull in the continuous whistle that has accompanied your journey. A deafening silence settles, bringing your paws to a halt unconsciously as you seek to preserve the fantastical quiet. Everything is still for a moment, and you are filled with a fresh spirit as you drink in the solitude. The wind gradually crescendos again, bringing you back to your senses, the chill encouraging you to move on towards your destination. Wind screams, grass dances and paws tread wearily on.
Cor, it's blummin' freezing innit?
Object: (the Friar's old habit) It lies on the table, donated by the Friar for any use it can be put too, the scraps that can be salvaged anyway. Various stains have become an integral part of the habit now, each of them carrying a little story of their own. A deep brown splotch showing the fateful end of a spoonful of redcurrant sauce gone astray. Singed hems speaking of times spent too close to an open flame, and fraying seams tickle exploratory paws with the dangling ends of thread. Patches litter the garment from numerous repairs over its long service, different faded hues of green layered over each other from many hurried repairs from paws rather more practised in cookery than needlework. There is a faint odour about it too, must from being hung up in retirement for a while and forgotten, alongside a concoction of food related scents perplexing even to the most accomplished snout.
Don' wanna taste that! It'd make yer retch 'n all!
Character: (a brave Badger Lord) He is very brave, very brave indeed. His physique is imposing, broad shouldered, looking like he had been chiselled out of the very rock of Salamandastron itself. A weathered and lined face, able to convey a wide range of emotion. A stern look for reprimanding, a warm smile for friendly interaction, a fierce scowl to ward off intruders and an indescribable expression reserved for his sheer joy and wonder at seeing the miracle of life that is his daughter. For now his expression is one of stony vigilance as he faces seaward, scanning the horizon. There is not one ounce of fear showing on his face at all, for he is very brave, and he most certainly does not jump like a startled pup every time he hears the faint calls from the upper chambers of the mountain. A cavernous rumble pours on his breath as he sighs deeply. A paw strong enough to crush stone, and tender enough to cradle a child grasps the hilt of a giant sword, forged by the very paws that wield it effortlessly in combat. He has faced many foes in defence of the shoreline, leading troops of hares, dedicated unfailingly to their charismatic and kind leader, to drive off marauders and pirates, corsairs and freebooters. It is his sense of duty that keeps drawing him to watch the horizon for any signs of approaching ships, despite the numerous hares engaged in similar tasks. It is most certainly not that he is hiding from his wife having forgotten one of many important jobs that he has been set to do that day and fearing the incursion of her ire. No, it is his desire to protect the mountain. He isn't afraid at all. He is very brave...very brave indeed.
Ha! Keep tellin' yerself that mate
(Not sure how much that last one stretches the task, and I also have no idea why there is some random voice giving commentary for each description, but hey. Such are the oddities of a mind set to create.)
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Zeke Ruffgar
Loyal Dibbun
Right Paw
"Good always wins. Always! Not just in books but in real life."
Posts: 348
Main: Zeke Ruffgar
Alt 1: Tristan
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Post by Zeke Ruffgar on Sept 8, 2016 9:06:41 GMT -5
Well done Burfle, you activity-doing maniac! I particularly liked this bit in the first: "...an over-friendly thistle that grasps at passing paws and cloak hems." Beautiful, and described in an out-of-the-ordinary way. I agree with the sentiment that the third might be a stretch, as it's largely visual, but give yourself some credit for the added texture. We do get a description of the feeling or sense of his paws, and the sound of his breath.
Let me know if you'd like an in-depth critique of this activity. You've been awarded the Illustrator badge!
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