All right. If you have read my question from about 35 minutes ago, I have decided on a name for my character. Four names for him, in fact. This is the beginning of the book. I’ve got it already to chapter two, and I already have a name for this chapter, the book, and the series, as well as the plot and characters written out perfectly. Yes, I am very good at this sort of thing…lol.

Chapter One: The Training Grounds
A small, rather stocky man stepped out of the shadows, bending down on one knee by a track in the sparkling snow, eyes narrowed as he gently touched the foot print. His left wrist rested on his left knee, which stood upright, as his right knee had to endure the cold snow that was slowly seeping into his simple brown leggings, one hand carefully studying the print in front of him. “The tracks are fresh,” he murmured to his companion, who had just appeared beside him. “They can’t be far.”
Atticus glanced up from the track, wiping the chilly wetness off on his heavy dark green cloak. Solac Quentin looked down at him, smiling, and Atticus got to his feet. “Will we be following them?” Solac asked him, and Atticus nodded curtly, unconsciously reaching behind his head to lightly run one thin, long finger down the glossy wood of his bow.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, we will be following them.”
Solac followed the smaller man into the trees again, and Atticus momentarily disappeared from sight in the undergrowth, running in a half-crouch, but making absolutely no sound as he went. The skills of a thief, Solac thought to himself, remembering what he had once seen written down on paper. “Art,” Solac said finally, and Atticus turned, one thin, dark eyebrow raising up, the movement barely visible beneath the hood that cast his entire face except his sharp chin in darkness.
Atticus was named Art for his love of artwork or anything with paint splattered on it. He was well below average height, at least 5’4, and slender to the point of being skinny, but with a very wiry and stocky figure beneath his bundles of clothing. His hair was thick, wavy, and very dark, as well as shaggy and quite unkempt. Art had thin, sharp black eyebrows that matched his hair and lay over his eyes like thunderclouds, and just the hint of a rather scruffy beard that went with his shaggy hair. His eyes were sharply shaped, as well as the rest of his stern-looking features, and flecks and touches of gold were added here and there to that liquid darkness that held quiet intelligence and wisdom that he usually kept hidden. He hated large crowds, loved the peace and quiet, and usually kept to himself. Never before had anyone heard his deep, soft voice rise above a loud whisper. His skin was fair, as if he had just reached the end of winter staying indoors by a fire, or outside in the cold, running around. The others ofttimes joked of how Art would never be married; and he reluctantly – though nobody had ever heard him admit it – confessed that it was true. He had gone more years than anybody would like to believe without companionship. But it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had any chances; although he was forty years old, he had no gray hairs in sight, hardly a wrinkle in his face, and was exceptionally handsome. And he hated children.
“Yes, Cast?”
Solac had gotten his nickname when Art had once stalked him silently, wondering where the man in his early twenties went when he was off-duty, and had found him sneaking off to fish, which was his secret passion. Art had caught him, much to the smaller man’s disgusting delight, and had spread the news, making sure it was kept secret of whom had found out and tattled. Cast had blundered around for weeks, in a helpless rage, trying as hard as he could to find out who knew; fishermen were considered out of fashion – dorks. And all the while, Art had strode along beside him, presumably ‘helping’ him find the culprit, while most likely laughing hysterically on the inside. Art was a master at keeping a straight face, as Cast eventually found out. Nothing really struck Art as funny, it seemed.
And Cast still hadn’t had his revenge.
“Admiring artwork is one thing,” Sardor Quentin, his older brother, always told him quietly, trying to help him out, “but being able to gape at it like a simple country bumpkin for hours on end without so much as blinking is just a tad strange.”
They had both seen Art in action – and he took it to extremes.
Cast was a relatively young man, now in his early thirties, not tall nor small, with long blond hair he kept up in a long ponytail down his back, and large, shining green eyes. Sardor looked exactly like him, only his hair was a shade darker. Sardor had no nickname, as he always said they were the marks of being an idiot. He had been careful not to let Art hear that, as the small man was highly irascible. When Art’s legen
Sorry. I think the last part was cut off. Here it is:
When Art’s legendary temper flared up, it was easy to see why some parents told their children to be good, or else Atticus the Hunter would visit them at night.