Creating A Monster: Making Jean Reynard

Jonathan Maloney

One of the more fascinating aspects of creation is the inspiration it springs from. We can look through history and the accounts of authors and whom they get to be part of their stories, and find that the light of creativity springs from strange places.

As time moves on, the nature of that inspiration changes too, to aspects and endeavours that were previously unimaginable. If Huckleberry Fin was born out of seeing a child on a handmade raft poling down the Mississippi, if Frodo and the Hobbits were formed in the halls of university before being forged in the trenches of the Somme, then we might start seeing new and—increasingly, perhaps—odder forms of birth.

This is all a very long winded way of saying I created Jean Reynard in a video game without having anyone laugh at me for it. I probably missed the mark.

Nevertheless, it remains true. Jean Reynard (though his name was different) was a character I created in an online roleplaying community game, set in Ravenloft—a setting where people strive against monsters and unknowable forces. He was part of a group of expert monster hunters, who studied and researched their enemies before fighting them. With my friends, we concepted the character. And then I spent seven years playing out his story. Refining and shifting his character as time went on. Chipping away at what he was to create something more potent, more real, more understood. 

I would write from his perspective often; to tell small stories, or to create artificial research into various creatures of myth and legend, complete with a full profile of each both physically and psychologically. A slow and difficult process, until the story was abruptly ended; meeting an ending that had to happen. At the time, I regretted it entirely. I did not feel the story was finished. I had entries to write, dossiers to create, research to do, and none of it would happen. And that was what prompted me to ask again—what if it was not? For a time I considered at least writing the end of that story before I realised I could not revisit the old ground, for any number of reasons. But I could tread upon new soil entirely, and see what sprang forth from it. 

What started as an idle exercise of thought started to move faster, as though this fresh idea breathed all new life into it. I moved the story to somewhere more recognisable. More known, and then put my own unknown spin upon it; the recognisable becoming different and all the more terrible for it. The misty world of Ravenloft became London, and with that change, the story itself—what it was about, who was in it, and how it would be played out—changed with it, and rapidly. But what did not change much, was Jean himself.

This is not to say his story did not change. It did, and drastically. His name was the gentlest change; there is near no part of the old Jean in terms of his story and history that carried across. Everything was redone, everything was rewritten, to fit the narrative of the story and the setting that it now found itself in. His voice changed, his manner of speaking, much of his appearance and manner along with it. But what changed was not as pronounced as what remained the same. The part that I knew, and the part that defined him so completely. The core aspects of his personality—his rage, his shame, his bloody-minded determination and above all, his agonising self-hatred. What would this man be, what would he do, when confronted with a situation? I realised, after existing in his head so long, I knew every answer. I knew exactly what Jean would do when confronted with a situation. I knew when he would turn away, I knew when he would refuse. I knew him better than I knew myself. He came to the page, I think, because in some ways he demanded it. Perhaps I knew better than to argue with him.

And yet, he is not the main character of the story. That title belongs to Bartholomew Bartleby, a character who came late into the story, but whom I have come to understand all too well; he will get his own little entry. Jean, however, is not a character whom readers would follow. He knows too much and too little. The expert who does not need answers presented. He has the answers to the questions Bartleby asks, but his decision to answer them is his own—or to not.

It is difficult to describe which of the two characters is more important; frankly, I leave that one to the judges. But as it stands, the more fascinating character to myself, is Jean. He is a paradox of personality—haunted by his demons and his own deeds, and driven by them as well. This paradox is followed by those who view him; to the outsider, to those to whom he is opposed, and to those in his path, Jean is the dreaded coming of wrath, a killer without remorse and tinged by a madness that they dare not dream. He is a terrible representation of those who do what others dare not contemplate, with the skills and savagery to do so. He understands the mind of those around him with a cynical insight that pierces and leans heavily towards their worst possible aspects—recognising it all too well. 

It is something I am familiar with, and something I know from my studies and experience—the difference being, I do not consciously seek it out at all times. Jean does. And yet, despite all that, despite that terrible outlook at the world—and at himself, most of all, for Jean is his own worst and most uncompromising critic—there are hints of the man he wishes he was, or might once have been, and only those closest to him can recognise it. The understanding of Jean Reynard, and perhaps pity of existence, is the mystery that will define the entire Method of the Kill series, and one I look forward to unveiling, piece by piece.

Jean was born out of grief, helpless frustration, and rage. The latter are products of the first, and something I fully recognise and regret. As the story begins, the version of him we now see is the lowest, the deepest point of the story. Some stories start at the beginning, but others instead proceed from the lowest possible point. That is where this story starts for Jean Reynard. The bottom of the deepest well, with only a distant glimmer of light far above. But it does not have to stay there. As the story goes on, I hope to convey that most of all—that redemption is, for all of its many difficulties, the path that is best followed. That we can grow from our pain, if we allow it. That we can rise above our sorrows, while recognising that they shall always be there. When this story ends, for all of its darkness, I hope that the love can yet be seen. It is, in the end, the heart of all of it.

And to think, all of this came from a character in a game. 

Dramatic pauses aside, this is something I think should be noted, for anyone looking to write. The source of the inspiration does not matter. The means in which you explore it does not matter. What matters is that it gives you the idea, and with that idea and your own experiences comes the voice. Where it came from is irrelevant, there is no measure for you to place your source of creation against, that somehow grants it less or more relevance. Jean’s image was formed in a game. His personality was forged in things—and people—that I lost. Find that. Seek out that spark and hold on to it, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. If Jean Reynard taught me anything, its that sometimes, the only way out is through. 

Maybe he can teach you too.

Jonathan Maloney is the author of Beasts of London, published by SkyNation Publishing June 13 2024. Available Now.