|
Full-body and bust portraits of Woodsmoke, showing several of her most important possessions as well as her features and physique.
|
Woodsmoke
Created by Dave Bryant
Smoke spent her childhood with her parents and her older brothers Ash and Ember in a small stone cabin built out from a partial overhang in a low cliff. Together they supplemented the produce of their small garden with hunting and gathering, and in the evenings the children were entertained and educated with stories and fables. Rarely did they see other people, for the cabin was far from any roads or paths other than game trails.
Then, early one summer afternoon, Smoke and her mother were interrupted in their chores by the premature return of her father and fearful-looking brothers from hunting. The older man said only “They’re here.” Immediately, her mother bundled her into the stone larder at the base of the cliff forming the cabin’s back wall, telling her in a tense whisper to stay quiet and still, no matter what happened.
Being a good daughter and a very frightened one, she did exactly that, even through the distant muffled screams and clash of arms, the interminable silence that followed, the crackle of flame, and a wave of heat. Only a full day of hunger pangs finally compelled her to crawl out of the pantry . . . into the charred ruin of the cabin and the family that had inhabited it.
In dry-eyed shock, she salvaged a few scraps of food, some bits of belongings, and a spear in the grass. Wearing only the singed clothes on her back, she walked away without a backward glance, and has stopped walking only briefly in the long years since. She’s traveled thousands of miles, alone and with groups; she’s seen wilderness and cities, met tribes and townfolk, and knows a wide variety of friends and acquaintances. She has no intention of settling anywhere.
What She Doesn’t Know
She doesn’t know exactly how old she is. She thinks she was about twelve when her family died and that she is about forty now. The only name she has is Woodsmoke, from the black of her fur and skin and the scent usually trapped in that fur.
She doesn’t know her parents’ names or backgrounds. Even their tales were the sort of generic lessons told by any culture and their language was a trade patois.
She doesn’t know why her family died or who killed them. Her parents might have been exiled nobility. They might have been escaped criminals. They might have been hapless victims of roaming bandits. She stopped wondering twenty years ago.
She doesn’t even know if the cabin was built by her parents or simply found and refurbished.
What She Looks, Sounds, and Smells Like
Naturally small stature, intermittent mild malnutrition, and a hard life spent almost entirely on her own two feet have left Woodsmoke a wiry little creature with so little body fat that it’s hard to tell at first glance whether she’s male or female. She stands about five feet tall and weighs less than ninety pounds.
She has no human-style scalp hair and is black literally all over, skin and fur. Her eyes are pale gold, her tail is a half-length stump, and one ear is mangled. She’s moderately strong and healthy for her small size, but her real physical assets are her speed and coordination.
Her normal dress is nothing more than a serapé. If local morés demand greater coverage, she will add a clout and if necessary leggings. She wears headgear or footgear only for protection from the elements or, in the latter case, better footing.
She is a laconic sort, usually making do with monosyllabic grunts in a low raspy voice, and she moves with great economy of motion. The only exception to this taciturnity is when she is storytelling, which she prefers to do sitting cross-legged. In contrast to the more typical tradition of theatricality, the power of her narratives relies on the timing and rhythm of her spare, direct words and hand gestures.
She bathes and washes her clothing when she can, but when she can’t, her usual scent is a mix of musk and woodsmoke.
What She Can and Can’t Do
All Woodsmoke’s skills revolve around her itinerant lifestyle. She can survive and navigate in the wilderness as a hunter-gatherer. She is no gourmet cook, but she can prepare forage and game for simple meals.
She speaks a number of trade pidgins, but few if any “formal” languages, and is of course illiterate. Combined with her minimalist speech patterns, this may lead others to underestimate her intelligence, unless they are sharp enough to understand the implications of her storytelling ability. In fact, collecting and disseminating stories is the closest thing she has to a hobby.
She is well-travelled and as a result fairly cosmopolitan. While the loss of her family did not strongy embitter her toward other people, she’s seen enough in her wanderings to be wary of gods, spirits, and most magics other than healing. Her own faith, if she were ever pinned down on the topic, is vaguely animist, but without much form or structure.
She has few skills suitable for a civilized setting, but she’s smart enough to know her limitations. When she stops in a town or city, it’s generally to spend a few days playing tourist or to spend a few weeks learning something—after, of course, taking the opportunity for a nice hot soak, if baths are available, and the finest meal she can afford. Then she’ll find a job, such as guide or guard, or a goal that will take her elsewhere or wander off on her own or with a group of like-minded individuals.
What She Owns
Woodsmoke carries two weapons, a six-foot-long spear and a moderate-sized sling. The former, her prized possession, is tipped at one end with a foot-long double-edged blade and at the other with a blunt-pointed ferrule counterweight, allowing the wielder to use it in much the same fashion as a Japanese yari; she is extremely skilled in its use. The latter is a fairly standard leather-and-cord design, kept ready to hand by wrapping it around an arm or the spear-shaft. If she anticipates difficulty in finding ammunition, she will pick up and carry a few suitable stones.
A rawhide drawstring-pouch contains the handful of tools that would be impossible or extremely inconvenient to create in camp: a hand-held whetstone, a fire-striker flint, a length of fishline, a few fishhooks, and some strips of cloth for bandages. The bandages are balled up in two bundles, one containing some tinder and the other some healing herbs, both periodically emptied out and replaced if and when they lose their usefulness. The bandages were cut from her previous serapé when it wore out.
For cooking and eating she has a hemispherical beaten-copper bowl with a heavy-gauge wire handle and a lid that doubles as a plate, and a lacquered-wood ladle-spoon. The latter and her rawhide-sheathed knife normally reside within the bowl when packed away. She also carries, slung by its strap over her shoulder, a waterskin able to hold about half a gallon.
The three-foot-by-six-foot wool serapé she normally wears doubles as a blanket at night. She also owns a linen clout and leggings, a felt petasos, and a pair of furred ankle-high snow boots with studded leather soles. The petasos was the first hat ever invented; a version of it is worn by the god Mercury. Woodsmoke’s petasos does not have the wings, of course, and the crown is slightly more peaked. When not being worn, the linen and felt clothing is rolled up and stuffed into the boots.
The largest and perhaps oddest object she owns started life as a six-foot-by-nine-foot wool blanket. The short ends were sewn together with heavy, rugged stitches to form a tube six feet long by a little less than three feet in diameter. Folded flat, it forms a decent bedroll. With her spear supported on forked sticks to serve as a tent-pole, it makes an adequate pup-tent. When she breaks camp, she simply tosses the tool-pouch, bowl (with spoon and knife inside), and boots (with other clothing inside) into the tube's middle, pulls out the spear, rolls up the blanket, overlaps the ends, and ties them up, forming a sling bag she can toss over a shoulder. If the weather turns bitterly cold, she can wear all the clothing, tie the bowl and pouch to the waistband of her clout, and wear the blanket as a very large serapé. Ω
Go to top of page
Go to . . .
This Web site and its content
copyright 2006 Dave Bryant except where otherwise noted. |
Some design elements on this Web site may render awkwardly if font sizes are changed in browser preferences or if viewed through Internet Explorer, because of its cavalier treatment of HTML and CSS standards; Safari or Mozilla-Firefox are recommended.
|