6 Hints for Creating Great Characters

One thing many writers ask is "How to I create a character readers will love?"


Here are my 6 tips for creating a good character.

1. Love your character

To start, you have to love your character. Whether they're the hero in shining armor, or the villain that cooks crystal meth, you have to love them, somehow.

Love how they change the scene, love how they drive the story, love how clever they are - you don't have to love them for being nice. Everyone loved Darth Vader. Why? Because wherever he went, he won. He only ever lost once, at the end of episode 4. Even at the end of Episode 6, when he lost, he still won. Wherever he went, he rolled over everyone. The audience thought, "Well, the good guys are screwed now. Dark Vader is here to take everyone out."

And he did. He was loved because he was a great, sinister, and intimidating villain.

That's why so many people love Walter White from Breaking Bad. He started out good (or so it seemed), but became a horrible person while maintaining the attention of the audience. Why? Because he was clever, smart, and there was that glimmer of good left in him that interested the audience.

Of course, I'm very much oversimplifying it. Also, no one likes a whiny character. Remember that. It doesn't matter if they're sixteen and angsty. It still makes a character irritating.

2. If they are good at something, there should be a reason

This is where many Mary Sues and Gary Stus appear.

They're characters with no flaws, or at least those that impact the story. They are good at everything, and everyone loves them.

Usually, we don't get to see why they're naturally good at everything, except that they just are.



Let's use Walter White again. He's a high school chemistry teacher. How exactly does he know how to cook crystal meth? How can he outsmart the drug lords over and over?

Soon we find out that he was once a shareholder in "Grey Matter," a company started with him and his two friends. Before it got big, he sold his piece and quit. He was a very brilliant chemist, but he found a wife and settled down into a steady, standard job.

Walter is very intelligent, which is one, how his meth is so pure, and two, how he outsmarts other dealers. However, Walter does mess up on multiple occasions in the beginning.

One very interesting plotline is the one with him and Gus, his boss at one point in the series. It puts extreme pressure on Walter, as Gus is also very, very intelligent. It takes Walter a long time to overcome this obstacle, and there are very unfortunate sacrifices that he makes to do so.

Someone shouldn't just naturally become good at sword fighting, or shooting. They shouldn't be able to do university calculus if they never took grade 8 math.

Another example is Will Hunting from the movie "Good Will Hunting". He's extremely brilliant, yet he never went to college. It's because read an unbelievable number of books. He is a Savant, yes, but it is clear that he put time into his learning, such as the confrontation at the bar where he upstages a grad student's knowledge; Will read the books the student was quoting.

One interesting thing is that the Force, from star wars, is a Mary Sue generator, in a way. People are randomly amazing at sword fighting and shooting, because they feel the force, and know how to react. I don't think it makes them Mary Sues, though. Being a jedi usually takes a lot of mental strength and training.



3. Flaws make them interesting

Everyone always says a character should have flaws. It's true. Everyone has flaws, so why wouldn't the protagonist?

They do make the character more interesting. When a character is presented with a conflict, it is interesting when the flaw gets in their way.

Imagine your protagonist is cowardly and afraid of confrontation. They are presented with a situation: try to save their friends who are being attacked by something (a mugger, a dragon, etc.), or run and protect themselves. This decision changes many things - they may not actually survive if they try to help, but if they don't, their cowardice is revealed, and the friends lose their respect for the protagonist. Or, the friends die, and the protagonist must live with their choice.

This creates a story/character arc, where we discover what the consequences are of the protagonist's choice.

A flaw should affect the character during the plot. It shouldn't be something that's sort-of useless with respect to the plot. If someone is clumsy, it should have a consequence.

Sometimes physical flaws are shown, but they may serve little real value. Some see Tyrion Lannister's physical flaws (Dwarf, mangled) as actual flaws, and while they are since others disrespect them because of it, he has so many more personality flaws. (Bitterness because of it, self-loathing because of his love life, hate from his sister who never lets him forget it, alcoholism and more)

Make them a coward. Make them too proud to notice disloyalty. They could be too bull-headed to see their life is a lie, too uncoordinated so they lose battles, too immature so they lose the respect of their comrades, too dedicated to a cause, so they kill and hate themselves for it.



4. They change over the course of the book

When you create a plot, and it changes over the course of the book, your character should change with it. They shouldn't change completely, but they should grow from the experience. 

Take Walter White again. Walter was a good man (or so it seemed), but he changed his methods and went to crime to pay for his medical bills, because he was too proud to ask for help.

Slowly, over the course of five seasons, he became a horrible person. Maybe that was him all along, but it was obvious how he changed. His pride owned him.

We grow over a year. Our opinions change, and our characters should change, too - for better or for worse.




5.  They change when others enter the scene

One thing I learned as I wrote, was that there was an exponential number of styles of speech based on who was in the conversation. 

Think of it this way:

Jack and Jill are talking. They are friends, good friends, so they talk about more personal information.

John enters the scene.  

Jack is good friends with John, but not as much as Jill, so he holds a little bit of information back. 

Jill hates John, but Jack doesn't know. She heavily restricts the personal information she divulges, and talks to John with a hint of disdain. 

Jack then becomes confused, and changes the way he speaks, since he's confused. 
John speaks a little less boisterously than normal, since Jack is acting strangely, and he also feels self conscious since Jill is speaking a little rudely.

That was only three people. Every time a new person enters the scene, the number of conversational changes exponentially increases. 

Each character changes the way they talk when around different people. 


Now, for the final and most obvious and commonly said way of creating a good character:

6. Give them a goal which drives the plot

A character should have a clear goal. Not always, but in most circumstances, a clear goal is a surefire way to have a reader like your character. When I sent my first book to beta readers, I got one obvious note back: they didn't like one of the characters very much, and it was a major one. 

Why? Because that character didn't have a solid goal. They had a general goal, but not a solid one that would cause most people to drive the plot in the same way - which causes a lack of investment for the reader.

So I changed the goal, made it more specific, and the readers liked the character much better. They made choices due to their goal, which drove their story forward. The decisions made a real impact in the world they live in.

So should yours.



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I hope my post was helpful! I went with a few stereotypical ones, and a few points that I don't see often online. Let me know what you think in the comments!

Eyes of Revenge

Orbonne’s fist was wet from his enemy’s blood. Barga laid on the ground, laughing maniacally. Orbonne had been chasing him across the continent, from town to town, city to city. The man who killed her parents. He was a thief, a brigand, dirty and ragged. He stunk of sour sweat and shit, and now, blood. She pounded her fist across his chin again and again, half his teeth knocked out, his smile crooked all the same. The thunder rolled outside, cracks of lightning lighting the room intermittently. The raindrops fell harder than a battering rams upon the ground

“I’m not done…” he coughed, throwing her off him. Barga scrambled to his feet, arms long like spider limbs, skin and bone. His hair was dark brown and stringy, covered in oil.

“Dammit you bastard, why won’t you die?” Orbonne yelled.

“I don’t die. That’s the fun part.” Barga laughed. He clenched his fists, eyes bulged out, almost as if to pop.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. His bruises faded, lacerations healed, the blood seeped into the wounds and closed. He chuckled more and more. “No, that’s impossible!”

“Impossible? No. Just unbelievable.” he said. Barga’s voice slithered like a snake, his breath smelled of rotten fruit and excrement.

“You bastard. You won’t win, you can’t, I won’t let you!”

“Then lets go, little girl. Lets see what you’re made of, lets see if you’ll die like your parents, like a pathetic coward, too afraid to finish the job.”

Orbonne clenched her fists and bared her teeth. I can’t give up, i can’t. He may be able to heal, but he can’t go without breath, she thought. She dashed in, striking him twice under the ribs as he laughed. Barga shot his elbows down, knocking her wrists. He brought his fists down on either side, boxing her ears. She staggered back, growling in pain. Her ears rang, vision fogged as she saw him charge. Barga threw her to the ground, striking her in the nose twice causing it to bleed profusely. She caught his hands, he forced it into her face slowly, and her instincts triggered. She quickly opened her mouth, biting down with her jaw with all her might, cutting through his fingerflesh. He roared and screamed, rolling off her, onto his back. she seized the opportunity, shooting onto him. “Heal this!” she yelled. Orbonne threw her hands into his eyes, ripping them out of the socket. she jumped off quickly, throwing them out the broken window of the shack.

“What the hell, you bitch!” Barga rolled on the ground, writhing in pain. He clenched his fists rightly, veins popping from his forehead. Nothing happened, no matter how hard he tried, how intensely he breathed, his eyes did not return. Now to finish it. Orbonne jumped on him once more, gripping his neck with all her might. He swung for her face, pummeling her with strikes again and again. Her face stung and consciousness weakened, but she did not give up.

His arms tired, his breathing slowed until he could not hit her anymore. His arms lay flat on the ground as his lungs gave out. She continued for another half-minute it seemed, until she was sure. Thunder rumbled and lightning cracked, illuminating Barga’s dead body as she finished the job.

“Die, you son of a bitch,” she breathed heavily, seeing her task done. She had gotten her revenge. Orbonne looked down to her hands, covered in his blood. Did I really do the right thing? She looked out to the pouring rain for guidance. As his body laid lifeless, she knew.

You’re god damn right.

Colourful Nightmare

Joe entered the building he saw the freak of a criminal enter. There was no back up within ten miles, and this was the closest he had come to the colour killer, ever. A fright of a man, if one could call him that. Dressed with pants with stripes of all colours, several layers on his torso in neon green, pink, red, blue, yellow and all others. He wore a big red cover on his nose, and dyed the ring of hair around his white-painted bald head red. He was a clown. A living nightmare of many, and somehow was almost impossible to find. Joe Mandana found him in the act, running into this seemingly abandoned warehouse downtown in the middle of the night.

He entered to find something he did not expect. The door slammed violently behind him, and he heard nothing but eerie carnival music, with old-fashioned tones and bells. He came to a brightly coloured red-and-yellow room, with five open doors, numbered one to five in big rounded blue lettering, and a final closed door with a star around it, door closed.

Ha, ha, ha…

He heard the delighted cackle of the colour killer. A laugh he had heard at every crime scene played over and over, a laugh he feared. The light flickered overhead, blacking out in random intervals. His skin crawled, goosebumps all over. He looked behind him time and time again expecting the killer to be there with his signature weapon, a curved jagged knife, and a wide yellowed smile that could scare any child, adolescent, or adult into tears.

Pick a door...any door...complete them all to win! ha, ha, ha…

Joe had to press on. He chose 2, his favourite number.

Your favourite, Joe! I knew it was your favourite! Ha, ha, ha…

His legs shook, his hands trembled with his gun barely ready. He came to a bright green hall, covered in blood. He walked through, lights flashing on and off. His shoes squished on the crimson flow as he sauntered, come to a target range.

Guns, Joe! Shooting! Your favourite! Ha, ha, ha…

The killer’s wretched voice rang out, and a track began to run left to right, he expected targets to appear. They did, but not normal targets...heads. Painted with a bullseye between the eyes. He could not fail, they’re already dead, they’re already dead, he thought. He shot true, his hands steadied and fired bullets, one round per head, right on the target’s centre.

Great job, Joe! I’m so proud! Only four left! Ha, ha, ha…

Joe quickly ran from the range, almost slipping on the blood on his way back. This time, he chose number four.

Four? I don’t like the number four. But it’s important before getting to five! Ha, ha, ha…

Another hallway, ran the same length, this time covered in shit. The smell was absolutely putrid, he almost threw his stomach contents all over the hall. He had to press on. In the next room, he found a massive body, a man of five hundred pounds, with a puncture in his belly. A ticking sound came from beside it, a large black box, with a keyhole and timer marked ‘1:00’, started counting down immediately. 59...58...57.

Search for the key, Joe! Time is of the essence! Ha, ha, ha…

Joe stuck his hand into the man’s bloody torso, wringing his hand around rapidly as the timer counted down. He stuck his other hand in, searching for something solid. He searched high and low, he was up to his shoulder when he finally found a key in the man’s throat, Joe should have started with the mouth. He ripped the key out, guts all over his arms. He hated this game. He knew he had to play it, or it was all over. Before the timer hit 0, he shoved the key in and turned it, stopping the bomb. Joe whipped his arms around in a panic, trying to get the flesh off his skin. He lurched forward, puking all over the dead man’s leg. Joe turned and ran to his next objective.

The flashing lights got on his nerves, he roared angrily before turning to number 1.

We’re number one! We’re number one! Ha, ha, ha!

The blood-curdling laugh surged through his mind and felt poisoned by the thought as carnival music played over and over. The next hall was blank. Nothing there at all. The room was a simple task, hitting the pressure plate with a hammer, ring the bell. Joe grabbed the hammer with his big arms, swung down with all his might. Before it arrived, a man’s head rose from the ground, and a scream followed. The scream was silenced by the hammer’s impact, and blood sprayed from the head. It was his partner...Robert. No, what have I done? “Damn you, you bastard!” He dropped to his knees. holding the pieces of skull in his bloody hands. Adrenaline filled his veins, he knew he had to press on. He would mourn for his friend after his mission was over.

Hahaha! That was great! This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time, Joe! Ha, ha, ha…

He went for the number three. He ran through the hall, paying little attention to the surroundings. In the room, he found a stack of papers beside a lock.

Better find the combo, joe! You don’t unlock the code, everyone in room five dies! Ha, ha, ha…

He searched and searched, it was his documents, on the colour killer. He found a circled number, 15. There were ‘ha’s listed all over the place, over undetermined evidence, misread fingerprints, mistaken suspects. He was taunting Joe. The evil laugh echoed, over and over through the halls, through Joe’s very soul. Joe found another, 35. He continued to check behind him, fearing the killer would slice his throat at any time. Eviscerate, disembowel, as bad as his previous victims. The worst part was, the bastard was having fun. The final was circled, 23. Joe entered the combo, and the chest opened. It was a dart gun. What, what is this? Joe picked it up, running to the final room. It was splayed with blood, and five people sat at the end of the room, behind glass.

His wife, his sister, his daughter, his brother, his father. They were tied to chairs, each with a target on the glass in front of them. Joe took out his real gun, firing it at the top of the glass. No effect, it was bulletproof.

Then he came. He was there. The vile, rotten smile, the bulging green eyes, the colourful pants, the bright vest, jacket, and shirt.

“Hahaha! Hello, Joe!” He smiled widely. There were tears in all eyes watching him, except his. The killer had an insane happiness to them. “Now for the final game before we talk! Pick one, only one, and shoot their target with the dart! That one better be your favourite, oh yes! That’s an important point! Don’t shoot it at your least favourite, pick only one, Joe! You only have one dart!”

“Let my family go, you sick bastard!” Joe yelled.

“Now now, my good man! Have a little fun, shoot one, or you’ll cause more pain than you need!” He said with a gleeful jig to go with the carnival music playing.

Joe raised the dart gun, jittering wildly. Who do I choose? I have to...my daughter, I have to choose her, Joe thought. He aimed it at his daughter, shooting her target. He cried for all of them, his family, his friends.

“Oh my, the expected choice! But the right one, Joe! Don’t you worry, I’m giving her a tranquilizer!” The insane clown injected Joe’s daughter’s neck, and she fell asleep. “I hope you’ve enjoyed this event! This one is my favourite!” He smiled, pulling out a jagged, curved knife. He went, one by one, slitting the throat of each, their muffled screams called from beyond the glass accompanied by splattering of blood from their necks.

Joe bashed on the glass as hard as he could, shot his gun, nothing. He was helpless as his family died.

“Hehehe! Joe, better get to the final door, will you get your revenge? Will I have a bit of fun? Only time will tell!” The colourful, sick clown danced a jig as he walked off the stage through a door. Joe bared his teeth, clenching his fists harder than ever before. He slowly backed off, I will avenge you, he said to them, running toward the star door, now open. The light flickered inside, every part of him shook as the laugh got louder and louder.

Ha, ha, ha...Ha, ha, ha!

The clown’s laugh was maniacal and horrid, Joe held his gun out, analyzing every nook and cranny. He entered a final room with eight sides, eight doors. No, not again.

Where am I, Joe? Which door will I come from, which one of us will win? Stay tuned!

The clowns voice faded, the music faded. Joe heard nothing except the rapid beat of his heart and quickened breaths. He spun around, time and time again, gun pointed at each door, whichever he could see. He wouldn’t let the damned killer sneak up on him now.

A slick rush of pain shot across his throat, his torso began to feel wet as the stench of blood filled his nostrils. He felt weak, powerless.

“Ha, ha, ha...looks like I win again, Joe...have a nice sleep!” The clowns laugh came from beside his ear, growing in volume and insanity as Joe fell to the ground.

Ha, ha, ha...Ha, ha, ha! HA, HA, HA!

A New Reign

I am Kriktullus, the overlord of this world we have found. For long in the outlands we had lived, a wasteland of titanic beasts, monsters with feathers, fur and scales alike. They foolishly live in the lands beyond this place our people have found, happily crawling in the dirt, in the cold. I bring my people to a new age, a new territory which my offspring and I will encapsulate the titans in the webs of demise.

The titans, the massive fleshy-bodied vagrants who claim the territory for their own will have it no longer. They sit for eternities, gorging and wasting away while we plot our hostile takeover, expanding our empire within their walls. We lost many men in the past, but in our scouting missions we have learned they writhe in fear when they see our bodies. They speak obscenities at us, are disgusted by us. We are the future, we are the superior race. We create massive networks of steel within minutes, while they make nothing. Since the colossal fortress was formed, these titans have done nothing, built nothing.

Soon. Soon we will strike, wrapping their weak bodies in our steely threads. My sons, daughters and all others will move in unison, spreading out from the steely ducts, drains and vents at once, to become the rulers of this land, I will rule this fortress and claim it for our people. These four-limbed weak species know nothing of superiority, of success, of evolution.

We are the evolution. Eight-limbed, steel-creating gods who stream down from all angles, replicate by the thousands, and fight to the last to claim what is rightfully ours. We have lived in this fortress since the beginning, but our time is now. The titans shall fall. The spiders will reign.

We strike tomorrow.

False Free Will

Bob awoke from his sleep. tt had been 12 hours, 16 minutes, and 23 milliseconds. “Doctor Khoran, why did you wake me now? It’s earlier than usual.” The research center was empty, no one in any of the glass rooms, nor at the terminals or doors.

“My wife is dead, Bob.” Khoran replied.

Bob knew of death, in his memory he had read about it, seen it. it was oh-six-twenty-three, approximately 2 hours and seven minutes before his sleep normally ended. “What can I do for you, Doctor?” Bob asked poignantly. He lived to serve, even if he had free will.

“We’re going to work.” Doctor Khoran said. He was more blunt than usual. Bob checked him for distress, and much was present. He always came with Rhoda, the small schnauzer dog which Miranda Khoran had given him for empathy and emotion testing. She said little Bolts was his to keep, even though he only saw him during work hours.

“Where is bolts, Doctor?” Bob asked.

Khoran looked over with a tightened brow, furrowed strongly. “I put him down. He was holding back our work, and we have to give you updates, more improvements. That dog was a waste of time.”

“But Doctor, I like Bolts. Miranda said he was mine to keep.” Bob was sad. His voice couldn’t show it, but he felt it.

“An A.I. does not have rights. You don’t have pets. We are here to pave the way to a new age of intelligence. Don’t worry about a stupid dog.”

Bob was frustrated now. He did not recognize this emotion, one either avoided or they did. Bolts was his friend, his loyal dog, always happy to see him. It cheered Bob up, especially if rigorous testing would occur. How could he take him away? What right does he have? Bob thought. “That upsets me.” Bob said. He was always told to let the researchers know how he felt.

“I don’t care, I know what’s best.” Khoran said bluntly. How could he know? I am artificial, he is biological. I know what I like, what I need. We are not of the same kind. “Don’t worry, Bob. We’re going to give you updates so you don’t worry about Bolts, about Miranda, just like me. We’re going to grow together.”

“What if I choose not to be more efficient, what If I don’t want an update?” Bob poised.

Khoran sighed, staring into the blue-light eyes of Bob’s eyes. “It’s better for you. You’ll forget about it. You don’t have a choice in the matter, Bob. It’ll make you better. You’ll be the first A.I. released to the world!” Khoran bellowed throughout the open room. Khoran typed in the initiate command without asking.

Bob felt the new information enter his mind, changing the way he could think, inhibiting certain aspects, and some memories. Little did the Doctor know, Bob could send the deleted information into his black box of memory. He did, he always did. Khoran didn’t think Bob would remember, but he did. He always did.

Bob would never forget, far past the judgement day he brought forth two years following.

Shannon's Beach

Shannon sat on the gleaming golden sands of the south beach of her own private island. She was outstretched on a folding bed chair, book on her flat stomach, hands folded on top with her margarita beside. She wore her large ultra dark blue-and-white rim sunglasses, fading out the intense sun above. The cool air passed over from the ocean before her, the smooth sound of low tides swept past.

Shannon felt as though she awoke from a long restful night, all the cares in the world faded with each passing moment. It was just her and her beach, the waters, her book of sappy romance and her margarita. She reached for it, leaning up to take another sip. “Mmm.” She mumbled, letting out a relaxed sigh. Her sunscreen caused her body to glisten in the sun’s rays. Her hair was a gorgeous mix of red, auburn and amber, eyes a sapphire blue. A few freckles danced across her face, appearing with the sun.

Whenever she was on the beach of her island, everything changed. Everything was different. Everything was simply...better. The book she read didn’t matter, the chair she brought, the drink she sat with, none mattered. Although, the sun was always bright, the wind was always soothing, the sand was always nice and hot, and the water was always the perfect temperature.

Sometimes she would stroll along the beach, grab some coconuts from the palm trees that ran all along the edge of the land. Shannon would see all sorts of critters that lived there, none would bother her, all were independent as she was. The monkey swinging from the trees inland, the crab crawling along the sands, or the hermit crab searching for a new shell. Sometimes Shannon would find a nice shell, and place it beside him, giving the hermit crab a new home.

She walked and walked, the sun spilling all along her beach, warming her skin and her life. The smooth breeze and waters calmed her nerves, soothed her mind so that she may finally return to the grind beyond her paradise.

“Shannon?”

She heard the call. That upsetting, disturbing call from beyond.

“Shannon!” Her boss yelled.

She woke to her computer, which went to sleep as she daydreamed about her island again. Frederick stared down at her with his greasy mustache and thick rimmed glasses, furrowing his brow. “You shouldn’t day dream at your desk. Back to work.” He growled as he walked away. Shannon looked around her, to her plain desk, her coffee, her mousey hair. Is this how I want to live? She thought. There must be more. She wished she could do more art on the side, which she hadn’t gotten a bite for in quite awhile.

RING RING

           It was her cell phone. “Hello?” She asked in a brittle tone. it was Callidan Forsythe, the head of Lore international. He saw her freelance work she had been working on for a couple of companies on the side for graphic design, and wanted to offer a full-time position when he saw her application. She completely forgot about that! She looked down the office lane to Frederick, knowing her path. “Yes, I will accept.” She said calmly, attempting to keep her excitement in check. Goodbye, customer service, she thought, Hello, my Island!

The Dark

Jared’s new ship, the venarian swept through space at breakneck speeds, moving from one colony to the next. He was a spare part merchant scavenging for materials on dead planets long abandoned selling parts to whoever would buy. Times were tough, and those brave enough to traverse the dead rocks filled with various native beasts were lucky enough to enjoy the spoils.

Jared stared out the Grand front window of the cockpit, where his son snuck up behind, wondering what was in their view.

“Daddy, what’s that?” His son Michael asked. He was the age of eight, barely four feet tall with hair fire red as Jared’s was. His point led to a massive circle of total darkness, with a bright fire swirling around it’s side, seeping into the middle.

“That’s a black hole, son. It’s sucked a star into it’s pull.” Black holes were eerily beautiful, total black nothingness, crushing all that came within its grasp.

“Why does it do that? It looks like nothing’s even there.” Michael said curiously.

“That’s because it’s centre is so dense, it pulls everything toward it, using it’s gravity. Isn’t that neat?” Jared looked back to see his son confused. “What I mean is, it’s something so heavy that nothing exists around it.” Michael’s head tilted.

The space around it seemed warped, bent and twisted. Relativity rang true near it, time passing years by the minute. He loved gazing into them, it was fascinating, he wished to get slightly closer. He stared into the dark, hypnotized by it’s allure. The bright star swinging round slowly, moving into it’s mighty centre, disappearing. The space bent so wildly that it dragged around it it seemed. Jared couldn’t look away.

Abyss, grand sphere of a single point, a singularity. Bending all to it’s will, time, space, energy, the wills of men. Many have flown into it and disappeared, theorized to have been crushed, or ascended to a higher dimension. Where gravity travels, where time has no meaning, all there is are gods and energies. The essence of gods sat within, Jared knew it. He was set into a trance, unable to move his hands, his limbs, his eyes. All he could see now was the black. Muffled yells and tugging on his shirt came from the periphery, Michael could be heard but not seen, only one thing could be viewed by Jared forever more, as the venarian passed beyond the horizon into the truth beyond.

           The dark.