A STUDY OF CHARACTERISATION AND MORALITY IN FANTASY FICTION, EXPLORING CREATIVE TECHNIQUES WITH IMMORAL PROTAGONISTS By Aaron Laurence Miles A thesis submitted to the University of Bedfordshire, in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts in the Research Institute for Media, Art and Design. November 2012 Abstract This project is a study of writing techniques used when constructing immoral protagonists, focused on identifying, categorising, and utilising these techniques. With an understanding of these techniques I will be able to write more engaging and successful immoral protagonists. This work includes a study of fantasy literature and writing craft as a way to identify techniques in practice, as well as my own creative element where I incorporate the techniques I have studied into my writing. The creative element is an example of these techniques put into practice with an accompanying analysis on their use in my work. The project helps to identify and establish the practices and concepts of the current trend towards darker protagonists in the fantasy genre. 2 List of Contents Title Page Number Abstract 2 Contents 3 Acknowledgments 4 The Throne of Fate: Chapter One 5 Chapter Two 15 Chapter Three 24 Chapter Four 31 Chapter Five 42 Chapter Six 51 Chapter Seven 60 Chapter Eight 68 Chapter Nine 80 Chapter Ten 88 Chapter Eleven 96 Chapter Twelve 105 Introduction 118 Background Writing 127 Morality as it relates to fiction 129 The Traditional Hero 131 The Development of Modern Fantasy and the Traditional Hero 134 A note on Anti-Heroes 138 Characterisation Techniques 140 Sympathy 144 Understanding 159 Admiration 165 Creative Element: Plot 174 Creative Element: Protagonists 178 Conclusions 194 Appendix A: Character profile, Cras Alder 197 Appendix B: Character profile, Malus Vern 199 Appendix C: Character profile, Arracan 201 Appendix D: Character profile, Captain Darion Hrun 203 Appendix E: Magic System 205 Appendix F: Religion 206 Appendix G: The Throne Of Fate Synopsis 208 Reference List 211 3 Acknowledgements I would like to thank my tutor Allen Stroud who introduced me to my thesis idea, and the invaluable advice and feedback of my supervisor Lesley McKenna. 4 Chapter One The rain beat down like it had a grudge against the ground. Stars shone faintly between the dense clouds and the moon was hidden in the sky. Dirt streets were sucking mud pools, devoid of life. The polished stones of the city shimmered with rain slicked lustre and every exposed surface in Kar Noval glistened. A damp smell hung in the air; the wet, loamy smell of the ground. Cras lay under the patched tarp of a rotted wagon, his cloak wrapped about him in a vain attempt to keep off the deluge as it soaked through the bowing sheet above. Chill water trickled down his neck and back, icy fingers tracing his spine. Bundles of sodden hay pressed in around him, matted and damp. It had lost its barnyard sweetness; now it smelled stagnant and mouldy. He shivered, soaked garments clinging to clammy skin, stealing the warmth from his blood. His hands clutched an oiled cloth wrapped around a bulky object. They opened and closed slowly in an effort to keep the blood flowing. “Come on,” Cras whispered to himself as another fit of shivering racked his body. Keeping an eye on the street through the gap in the wagon boards, he let go of the bundle and drew out a small hip flask from under his tunic. Pulling the stopper, he tilted his head and knocked back the drink. The burning liquid raced down his throat, kindling a flame in his stomach and chasing away the shakes. He slipped the flask back into his jerkin, silently cursing himself. Should’ve pissed before I came. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the straw scrape along his back as it got into his clothes. Cras scratched viciously, twisting his body in the cramped confines. Would’ve been so easy to get a sturdy pottery wagon. Settling back into his former pose, he peered through the hole in the wooden boards of the wagon. He could just make out the manse of Questo Kor across the street. His limited view was focused on the elegantly carved doorway, hemmed in by the rotting wood of the wagon. He tilted his head to get a better 5 look. There was a side window by the door, but the shutters were drawn, with a bright glow emanating from the edges. The golden light spoke of comfort and warmth. Cras imagined he could feel the heat from inside as the liquor lost its effect. Envious and miserable, he felt a sudden surge of hate for this man who got to dwell in luxury while he was freezing his arse off in the pouring rain. If he doesn’t come out soon, I’m going in. He began to shiver again, long tremors that ran up the length of his body. Trickles of rain ran down the hood of his cloak, dripping in front of his face. He shook his head, the patter of the water hitting the wagon floor was lost in the relentless drone all around him. Open. Close. He continued to flex his hands, keeping them supple and ready. Cras sifted his fingers through the oiled cloth, momentarily comforted by the faint warmth it provided. Normally he was patient, he could wait for a target. Normally... In front of him the door creaked open a fraction and all his attention became focused on that. The shivering stopped as his muscles snapped taut, he watched intently through the gap. An arc of light opened up from the door, shining into the murky streets as if stabbing at the night. Both his hands reached under the oiled cloth, gripping tightly at the wood and metal, fingering the sharp edges. Voices could be heard from the house, mingled with faint laughter. After a pause the door closed again, slamming shut with awful finality. They were mocking him. Lying here in this downpour for hours, staring at a haven of warmth and dry, Cras was drowning in bitterness and rage. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, ready to barge in, consequences be damned. Another fit of shivering wracked his body; he sneezed, jerking. The tarp jolted as his head hit the material, knocking a corner loose, and a miniature waterfall poured into the wagon, soaking his shoulders. “Bastard,” Cras cursed, making to get up, but the door opposite opened again. He dropped to the floor of the wagon, pressing his face up against the hole. The door opened wider, revealing something of the inside. Bright torches 6 blazed behind dark silhouettes. A press of bodies, laughing, dancing. A party. That was why Questo was so late coming out. Cras’ blood boiled. A figure with a flickering torch stepped out and the door closed. Even at this distance, he could make out the paunchy outline of Questo Kor in the faint light. The minor noble was fond of indulging his sweet tooth and it had not done the man any favours. Cras quickly unwrapped the bundle before him, moving by touch. The oiled cloth fell back to expose a crossbow, the metal and wood painted black to prevent it catching any light. The bolt was already fitted and he drew it back in silence, winding the crank. Questo stayed in the arch of the doorway, trying to shield the torch with his hand, its flames struggling for life against the downpour. Cras sighted along the crossbow, ignoring the water pooling around his elbows. He took his time to aim, unable to accept failure after all he had been through. His finger tightened on the trigger. The street plunged back into darkness as the torch guttered and died. Fucking rain! He heard Questo curse the rain too, but now could only just make him out in the darkness. It was impossible to aim accurately. Still, he might not get another chance if Questo went back inside. He would just have to trust to luck. Cras aimed at the rough shape of the noble, breathing slowly. Oh, no. He sneezed. Thankfully he shifted his finger as he jerked, and the bolt stayed where it was. But the noise of his sneeze must surely have alerted Questo. Cras heard footsteps approaching the wagon, squelching in the mud. He peered out of the gap but couldn’t see anyone. Again he shivered, his chin quivering with the cold. The tarp covering him shifted, showering him with collected water, soaking him all over again. The shock stunned him for a moment, then the tarp was ripped off his back and the rain came down on him. “Hello? Who’s there?” Cras rolled over. Questo was staring down at him, a look of concern on his face. Until he saw the crossbow. Cras brought up the weapon and pulled the 7 trigger. Nothing happened. The water had ruined the mechanism. Cursing, he dropped the crossbow and leapt off the wagon, barrelling into the noble. “You bastard!” he cried, crashing into Questo, taking them both down into the mud and knocking the extinguished torch from Questo’s hand. Cras struggled to rise, feet skidding in the slick surface. The noble was trying to escape, dragging himself across the street. Cras grabbed his shoulders, heaving the struggling man back. Tossing Questo on the ground, Cras jumped onto his chest and hammered a fist into his face, and again, again. “Help!” Questo cried, spitting blood. Cras hit him again, feeling the crack of bone under his fist as Questo’s jaw broke.