Character Design Tips

Character Design Tips

Some people have asked how I went about drawing the Overwatch cast, so I threw together a list of things I think about when designing characters: shapes, silhouettes, colors, and inspiration.

1. Shapes

There are three basic shapes in my toolbox: round, box, and triangle. If I follow my intuition, each shape conveys a personality. For example:

Round = charismatic, harmless, endearing

Box = reliable, uniform, traditional

Triangle = cunning, dynamic, competent (downward pointing more aggressive)

Shapes can also be combined for more complex characters

2. Silhouettes

Block in the character. If I can still recognize who it is, then it has a strong, readable silhouette.

3. Color

Sometimes less is more. Limit the palette for unity and impact. When working with three colors, keep the 60-30-10 rule in mind. Pick one color to make up about 60% of the character, a second color to make up about 30%, and the last color is about 10%.

When working with just two colors, use the 70-30 rule. One color is about 70%, the second is about 30%.

4. Inspiration

Designs come to mind easier when I’m listening to music, or when I have a mental image of something in mind. For example, I was listening to Klezmer music when drawing Reaper, and I was thinking of a chicken when I was drawing Lucio. It can take a while to warm up, so a good source of inspiration is important to stay motivated.

Beyond that, it’s up to you! 

[If you want to see the specific artists I drew influence from, click here to see my influence map.]

thedragonwoodconservancy on ig

pokemon and such consultations

imagine.... sidious reveals he's a sith and the whole scene with mace happens and instead of being an idiot he just force dyad calls obiwan. #galaxysaved

*dies* OK but like…what if Obi-Wan is literally IN THE MIDDLE OF THAT BATTLE ON UTAPAU, and Anakin is in the middle of Windu v Sidious. 

Obi-Wan: [getting shot at, riding around on Boga the giant space lizard]Anakin: [appearing in front of Obi-Wan’s face] AHHHHHHHHHHObi-Wan: [seeing behind Anakin] SITH HELLS, ANAKIN, WHAT IS HAPPENING OVER THEREAnakin: OBI-WAN, SHOULD I KILL MACE, OR THE CHANCELLOR????Obi-Wan: [almost veering off a cliff, dodging bullets] I – WHAT???!Cody: [via comm] Sir, what’s going on over there?Obi-Wan: I – [deflecting blaster bolts] Cody can you just – I’ll call you back –Anakin: [screaming] HE’S GONNA MELT THE CHANCELLOR’S FACE OFF OBI-WAN WHAT SHOULD I DO Obi-Wan: For FUCK’S SAKE ANAKIN, I – [ducks falling debris] WHY IS MASTER WINDU FIGHTING THE CHANCELLOR? [jumps over a chasm on lizardback]Anakin: OBI-WAN I DON’T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN WHAT SHOULD I DOObi-Wan: OH FOR THE LOVE OF – [jumps through the bond, rides into Sheev’s office]Sidious: UNLIMITED POW– WAIT WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS KENOBI DOING HERE?!Mace: FOR FORCE’S SAKE OBI-WAN HOW IN THE NAME OF – Obi-Wan: [dismounting, hair whipping in the wind from the broken window] OK EVERYONE JUST CALM DOWN FOR A MOMENTMace: HE’S THE SITH LORDSidious: HE’S A LIAR, I’M AN OLD MAN WHO LOVES DEMOCRACY Anakin: [incoherent sobbing]Obi-Wan: ANAKIN TAKE BOGA BACK TO UTAPAUAnakin: [sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve] But I – Obi-Wan: GO.

my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks over and being sure i spoke to only him and no one more. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spend so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

You know when you open your mouth and your parent comes out? I feel that happens more and more as I get older. Anyways, you think that ever happened to Vader? Like he's in his big dark castle of tasteless doom and insulting every Imperial officer that visits then boom, all of a sudden a Kenobi-ism pops out (probably with a hint of a Coruscanti accent to boot). Obi-Wan did have an awful lot of one liners, after all.

Oh gosh, I love this. Yes. I hope it happens after Obi-Wan is dead, too, so his ghost can observe this and drag Anakin for it later. “Why do I get the feeling this project is going to be the death of me?” he murmurs to himself during a Death Star Team Meeting, pinching the bridge of the nose on his helmet. The first time he haughtily chides some officer that he “needs to learn his place”, he cringes. 

I also hope it comes out when he has an Evil Ruler of some random planet that’s colluding with the Empire over (he hates when Sheev makes him host these guys GOD WHY CAN’T HE JUST BE LEFT ALONE IN HIS MISERY WITH HIS PICTURES OF CLONE WARS OBI-WAN DAMN IT.) 

He’s sitting there at his edgelord dining table trying to make small talk and be charming because Sheev INSISTED that they make nice with this guy, but like…the only material Anakin has to refer back to is from Obi-Wan negotiating with people, so he sort of ends up hitting on the guy by accident? And since it’s coming from A) Anakin B) as Vader, it’s just incredibly awkward and also terrifying. By the time he sends him off (with one of those dopey salutes that Obi-Wan always did,) he hates himself even more than he did before.