crucial muse development questions. send a number in my inbox to find out more about my character as a person ( because often, the most important things about character development have nothing to do with their shoe size or netflix queue ).
what would completely break your character?
what was the best thing in your character’s life?
what was the worst thing in your character’s life?
what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?
does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?
what is your character reluctant to tell people?
how does your character feel about sex?
how many friends does your character have?
how many friends does your character want?
what would your character make a scene in public about?
for what would your character give their life?
what are your character’s major flaws?
what does your character pretend or try to care about?
how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?
Mun Note: This is a canon transcription word for word, because I mean to make headcanons off it eventually. For now however suffice it to say it was this monologue that created the entire arc for author!Abigail and that this flow is very much how her books read. There is something intimate and soft about her writing, which I imagine is what makes them so popular.
Last night was the first of my journey home. Still, my dreams are haunted by the faces of those pirates that first captured me. Now I find myself in the custody of another band of pirates. I’m told they’re different – and I will say that so far these men have treated me civilly, even courteously.
They’ve even afforded me the tools to keep this journal, and though they will almost certainly destroy these pages before we disembark, eliminating any record of their activities or their identities, just the act of putting my thoughts to paper has helped me feel myself again. To construct for myself an illusion, that I’m still on the Good Fortune, nearing the end of a long voyage. Recent events were themselves the nightmare, and that these men are simply sailors, tasked with delivering me home.
But it is only an illusion, and a fragile one at that.
My father’s told me about these men, about their natures. So I know that, any appearance of civility from them is but a glimpse of the men they once were – a ghost, that shows itself only while the darker things that now govern their souls lay dormant. Though I am forced to wonder, if this illusion is no accident at all.
Theatre, for my benefit, orchestrated by someone so awful, even monsters such as these have no choice but to dance for the tune he plays for them.
Which leads me to the one thought I find most frightening and most difficult to dismiss. What happens when that man decides the theatre no longer serves his purposes, and he lets the monsters loose?
[ After Nicholas Irvin is murdered cause buddy thought Silver gave him a “look” ]
From across an ocean, it is hard to know what a New World is. All I knew, were the stories I was told, of monsters and valiant men sworn to slay them. But now that I’ve nearly traversed the ocean that separates new world from old, I fear the stories I’ve heard may have clouded the truth more than clarified it. [ later edited]
It would seem these monsters – are men. Sons, brothers, fathers. And it would seem these men fear their own monsters. An empire, a Navy, a king. My father.
So much I’ve left behind me. London, my youth, and comfortable stories. So much lies ahead in Charlestown. A future and harder truths. I feel I must face it honestly, bravely. I must face it as my father’s daughter. And I believe that in order to do that, I have to tell these people that which I’ve kept from them. I have to tell them what I know.
[ Edited Version ]
I fear the stories I’ve heard may have clouded the truth more than clarified it. And as so many of these stories were relayed to me by my father, I am forced to wonder if he is mistaken, or if his motives are something more deliberate than that. I fear the stories I carry with me are my sole comfort. From across an ocean, it is hard to know what a New World is. All I knew, were the stories I was told, of monsters and valiant men sworn to slay them.
“This?” His words are slurred, expression dazed. He’s miking it – but Charles doesn’t need to know that. His face hurts well enough to remind him not to bring on round two so soon after such a spectacularly drawn out round one. “Oh, uh. Nothing. Tripped.” Into someone’s fist. Yeah, he’s not making any friends, and about the only thing useful he’s learned on this damned island is that Charles Vane was a man with a reputation.
A man, who, also likes iguanas.
“So, you have a few as pets or do you just, you know.” He gestures vaguely around. “-watch?”
Satisfied the man before him seemed more afflicted by pain beset on him through fucking around with the wrong kind of people, Charles exhaled the burn that had been resting in his lungs slowly, his disinterest rather clear. Nassau had troublemakers, but none were fool enough to tussle with him while he was sober.
“Any man who thinks he can keep an animal is a fucking idiot.” Like people, animals were beings unto themselves – they stuck around if it pleased them to do so, and left when it was no longer beneficial. Though admittedly, animals were a great deal more honest about that reality than people were – which was indeed what made this notion of ‘pets’ so goddamn ridiculous.
Flicking ash off his
cheroot, he eyed the other quietly, then, “I let them be. If one happens to come along I won’t let anyone fuck with it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So you like Iguanas?” Ignore the blood on his face, the evidence of a tussle. He’s more interested in Charles’ thing for lizards than the fact he just had his ass handed to him.
The blood on his face in conjunction with that particular opening does not endear this man to Charles even one iota. “The fuck you do?” If you killed an iguana he may have no choice but to feed you to it’s brothers.
He had been keeping up to date for months now – and he had thought perhaps he was ready. Seeing James again had stolen the air from his lungs in so many ways it had scared him. There was no denying that his heart still beat for the man and yet, he hadn’t wanted to show it – wasn’t ready to show it or accept what it might mean when he did. Instead he had simply tried to entertain conversation, catching up with the man face to face rather than through third parties.
It had been pleasant, honestly. Nerves had settled over time and things had felt right up until he had to go. James had reached out so quickly – the grip so tight and immediate that it had taken great will to stand still and civil when his own instincts were flaring with alarm at the action. He was glad he had managed it though – the hurt on James features told him clearly enough that anything harsher might have broken something between them, and that was the scariest part of all of this.
His chest is tight – a decision looms before him, one that he knows only he can make. It is that reassurance alone that steadies him enough to consider the benefits and consequences before he steps forward instead of away. The motion solidifies his choice, and he closes the distance, pulling James into a warm embrace – the same embrace he had avoided offering when he first arrived, for fear of what it might cost. Now, he knew that denying them this wouldn’t help – they both needed the solidity of knowing the other was there in more than stories from the mouths of others.
“I’ll be back,” He promised, needing James to know that he wasn’t saying something more permanent in this choice of farewell. Stepping back, he gripped the man’s shoulders the way he used to – even if they were broader, stiffer than he remembered, the gesture stayed familiar. “Thank you, James.” He didn’t know if the man really understood why he needed this – but the fact that he never forced anything meant the world to Thomas, and he deserved to know that, by some measure.
Maybe it had been petty – but Christ on a Christmas cracker the way Flint jumped was so funny Hal forgot all about the fact he was dead and collapsed in on himself from laughing so hard. It was like throwing a cucumber at a cat! Pure, harmless entertainment at its finest.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one amused either, and something warmed as Flint laughed. It was times like this – when Flint was amused by him and seemed like he might be okay – that Hal thought he saw something bright in the corner of his eye.
Ignoring it as usual, he smiled as the younger man slumped and chided him. “Just cause you can’t purr,” He shot back, knowing it wouldn’t be heard and not minding one bit. He flashed to the front of the desk instead, fluttering paper again, as a means of acknowledging he heard the complaint, if nothing else.
When it had first happened, Hal had been absolutely furious with Flint for killing him and positively despondent with his fate as a ghost. As time had come to pass however, he had found that there was a surprising sort of comfort in being dead. He had no obligations or responsibilities, and with no need for food, drink or sleep he had nothing but time.
At first he hadn’t known what to do with it – but as he spent more time in the state, he began to acquire energy. He found that his energy would increase as a result of certain things – and decrease whenever he spent it on particular actions. He’d begun experimenting – learning what he could do, what cost the most energy and what granted the most energy.
So far, mischief seemed to be both the most taxing and the most gratifying – in every sense. As Flint suddenly made uncomfortable noises and stood like a rabbit before the wolf while he was stared at by the others, Hal fucking lost it in the corner, unseen by all as he laughed, knowing that there was nothing Flint could do about this and thriving on the man’s frustration now – knowing his frustration later would charge him up enough to make up for the energy spent on this to begin with.
Watching Gates set up the wash basin, Flint felt the old, constricting silence settle in his throat. He knew that had anyone other than Hal walked through that door and seen him like this, his world would have begun collapsing around him already. Weakness like this was not something to be shown in front of a crew, ever.
He faded, a little. Felt the world slip out of focus, the sounds of Gates’ movements muffled and distant as Flint tried not to think about the blood, and the exhaustion, and how utterly unrecognizable he had become to himself. But he looked up when Hal moved into his line of vision, the world sharpening.
Flint stared dead-eyed until Hal crouched down, at which point the captain’s brow began to furrow. He took the cloth almost tentatively from him, watching Gates with the intense, sharp gaze that usually meant he was trying to read someone. Hal… did not mock. Did not ask questions, or treat this as anything other than offering a cloth to someone that needed to scrub the blood from their face. Flint couldn’t name the emotion that rose in him because of it.
He turned the cloth over in his hands a few times before swiping his face with it, the scrape of the fabric grounding him, dislodging the silence that had stuck itself in his throat. “Good,” he said, quietly, then–eyeing Gates for a moment, his expression unreadable–slowly began to uncurl, and push himself up off of the floor. “Should keep them content for a while.”
He moved past him, towards the wash basin. His eyes fell on the clothes laid out, but the first thing Flint did was begin scrubbing at his hands, keeping his back to Gates as he did so. He would need to wash them again afterwards- trying to clean the blood out of his hair and beard was already proving a difficult task- but it felt necessary, regardless, to have his hands somewhat cleaner beforehand.
He glanced sharply at Gates, then turned away, reaching for the clothing that had been laid out.
“–if you have something to say, just fucking say it.”
Hal kept an eye on Flint as he cleaned up, measuring where he was at and determining if it might be wise to keep him cooped up a while longer or if getting him out under the sun for a time might be more beneficial. He hummed, indicating his agreement with the assessment – he knew that Flint had not wanted this detour, but he also knew it was exactly what the crew needed in order to keep them manageable.
Perhaps that was exactly the right response for answering all questions though. Maintaining a relative silence seemed to have put Flint on edge, especially in light of what appeared to be a complete breakdown, and that was enough to convince Hal to keep the man safely out of sight for a good while, until his humors could rebalance themselves.
“Breathe.” The first word was succinct, but it was the most important thing he had to say at the moment. “Get yourself cleaned up – whatever this was, it is over and we are going to drink, eat, and forget about it. Which will be easier to do when you don’t look – and likely feel – like you’re stuck in the center of it.”
Flint’s gaze was intense and furious as he watched Gates drink. The anger did not seem directed at one specific thing, exactly: it simply was, and it radiated off of Flint in every twitch and squint, like some inextricable part of him that could not be let go of. His hand was curled around his own tankard, but the moment Gates spoke it was clear Flint had all but forgotten the drink was even there.
At the suggestion of feeding them some bones, Flint made a scathing, frustrated sound: he rose abruptly, the way he often did during conversations like this. Like he was too restless to stay still. His fingers twitched at his side while one hand lifted to rub at his beard, back turning to Gates as Flint moved towards the window. He glared out through the glass a while, then turned that mismatched gaze back to Gates, still equally as wound up.
“Fuck them,” Flint hissed, and looked away again. After a beat, he paced slowly along the space behind the desk between them, mulling Gates’ words over. As much as Flint believed that he knew better than the crew–as much as he elevated himself above them constantly–he could not deny that they were necessary for what he wanted to achieve. He needed their support, unless he wanted a mutiny on his hands and to lose all hope of ever acquiring that fucking gold.
“Those men–” Flint all but rounded on him, leaning forwards to brace both hands on the desk. “–cannot be trusted with this until the last possible moment. If I were to tell them what we’re hunting, I wouldn’t trust a single fucking one of them not to either sell that information or let it slip through sheer carelessness. But if I don’t–” He straightened again, finally conceding the point with a vague gesture at Gates: you’re right.
“Every moment we spend hunting more profitable prizes for their sakes is a moment that I cannot afford to waste,” he muttered, fidgeting at his beard again. “That we cannot afford to waste.” But the crew thought he was weak–
His eyes fell on the tankard on the desk; Flint reached down for it, took a swig, and set it down again: the smell of blood reached him every time he lifted his hands anywhere near his face, and he could not make himself sit back down again.
“The Urca has to take priority. There’s simply no other option.”
Hal did not react as Flint displayed his frustrations – not so much because he believed the man’s anger impotent, as due to the fact he was holding on to the faith the man was smart enough to put his emotions aside and approach matters critically once he’d had his outburst. Lips thinning just long enough to form a smack as Hal shot his brows up and tilted his head to the side, conveying plenty without saying a goddamn word, he took another swig of his drink as Flint talked himself around.
The gesture in his direction was noted over the rim of his tankard, and Hal saluted the man before he set it down as the captain muttered to himself. Still he waited, having a feeling this was not the end – and finding himself proven correct when objectives seemed to realign themselves within Flint and settle stubbornly into place. Hal took a breath, because as much as he wanted that haul – at least one of them needed to give a fuck about the crew.
“I don’t pretend to understand your ambitions, just like I know there’s not a man aboard this crew who’ll care. Thinking beyond full bellies and purses is not what they are here for – and loyalty among pirates is something that must be purchased and respected or it wanes. Your own rise to captaincy should prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that a crew that sees its captain as weak and unwilling to pursue profitable prizes is replaceable.”
Tabers had been a damn good captain – Gates had a feeling even Flint could acknowledge that much. He’d played it safe, sure, but there was never a time his crew wanted for pay. Not once. And now that same crew was going months without it or any explanation for it while being lead by the man who had promised to give them profits unheard of under Tabers by bringing them a taste of a good fight. There was no way in hell Flint was truly naive enough to think he could keep this crew under these conditions. Again, simply being the best for a time did not in turn ascertain one could maintain that title without proving it.
“So unless your intent is to kill a man every other week – which might incite fear enough to keep you in business for another three months, but guarantees a mutiny within six – I am going to have to suggest you come up with something better than what we have running right now. Because you can degrade this crew all you like,” And Hal was not fond of how conceited Flint could get, which showed itself only in how cold and stern his own tone became, “You’re fucked without them. So figure this out, because that little display back there isn’t going to make them respect you again, but it is going to make them question if following you is worth not only no pay – but also, apparent instability.”
Ocean Archive 
