As the sounds of unbridled violence died down, eerie silence filled the room. Markus stood in the middle of it, neither awestruck or relieved. The familiarity of the situation would've made him laugh, had he devoted time for those emotions. His shotgun shifted in his arms, smoke pouring out the barrels. Around him: the unwanted and unwelcome visitors from Hell itself, lying in heaps on the cold metal floor. Markus's pitch black hair, lengthy and unkempt, slid across his shoulders as he scanned the room. Two possible exit points: a malfunctioning door at one end and a magnetically sealed airlock opposite. As much as he would've LOVED to step out on the planet's surface and inhale the vacuum of space, his primary objective remained: find any and all survivors. He approached the fidgeting door, holstering the shotgun underneath the tattered black duster coat. With both hands on the edge of the door he pushed until it met its place inside the doorway. He took notice of his arm, the severe burn he inherited not more than two minutes ago already healed up. For a brief moment he pondered just how much it had cost the company to manufacture the serum that flowed through his veins. One-hundred million? Two-hundred million? Half a billion? It didn't matter. With the obstacle cleared he entered the next room, not a shred of fear present in his body. (I drew some inspiration from the Doom games here.)
Personally, I don't think that's possible. (For me, at least.) Judging from the above posts, I'm not alone in that. I don't see as much value in appearance as personality, so any detail I divulge tends to have a higher purpose than mere aesthetics. The description of eye colour, for example, is only as important to me as what can be implied about that character's expression and, hence, their personality. (EDIT: Also the description can say a lot about the PoV character.) I've pulled this off my blog. It's a piece I wrote up while I was still a tad pissed off over an incident that passed between myself and shop assistant at a cosmetics counter. 'Immaculately plastered in palest pancake, her features conspired to form an unnatural rictus, hollow eyes appraising me from behind a pair of 1950s, librarian spectacles. A harpy's talons blooded with Rouge Noir polish drummed a tattoo as I tested her patience. I was clearly beyond her help. I only wanted new eyeliner, but it became rapidly obvious she intended me to exit her cosmetic domain with a posh carrier bag containing an aesthetic cure for every flaw, not to mention a depleted bank account. Who the hell did she think she was, picking on my every imperfection? She wasn't fooling anyone. Those strategically coiffed wisps of hair did nothing to hide the tell-tale scars behind her ears, nor the lack of character lines creasing her forehead. I'd half a mind to call her out for false advertising. For all her efforts to appear younger, her hands betrayed her. Bulbous finger joints hinted at arthritis. Poorly concealed liver spots told a tale. Not maid, not mother but crone, despite her surgical efforts. Whatever happened to the notion of growing old gracefully?'
That's definitely a good point. What I really meant with it was that you don't need to show stuff like dialogue, thoughts, or anything that is otherwise not psychical. I agree that the psychical descriptions should actually say something about the character personality wise, though, so I definitely phrased it a little poorly, so thanks for noting it. I'll edit it to make what I was trying to say clearer!
(Obviously not the first time we've met this character—it's his wedding day. It's a double wedding. Rob is marrying Caroline, and Joe is marrying Jessie, the POV character.) Rob was waiting for Caroline at the end of the aisle beaming his widest smile. Joe stood at ease beside him, smiling too. Joe had dressed simply, but colorfully, in his wine-red shirt and soft buckskin vest, with a blue silk neckerchief knotted at his throat. Bare sunshine streamed through the arched church windows, accentuating his high-carved cheekbones, warming his dusky skin, burnishing his lush black hair and transforming the hoop at his ear into a tiny glittering star. His outlandish beauty seemed conspicuous before that pastel Sunday congregation—as startling as a red cardinal in a flock of winter sparrows—as stunning and rare as old Spanish gold. Jessie felt her heart constrict in sweet disbelief. Can this really be for me? As she approached, he extended his hand to her. Jessie released Caleb Carver’s arm with a little squeeze of thanks, took the last few steps on her own and let Joe lift her gloved fingers to his lips. He bent to kiss her on the mouth too, a gentle welcome that caused a few scandalized whispers to ripple through the congregation. Reverend Kidder cleared his throat meaningfully, but although Jessie felt her cheeks grow warm, she did not really care what anybody thought, not even Reverend Kidder. When Joe turned calmly to face the pulpit, he did not let go of her hand. .............. (And another excerpt, describing the new attitude and attire of another character whom we've also met before. This is being told through the POV of Hank, a teenaged member of Jerry's outlaw gang.) Jerry had changed his appearance during the winter. He’d spruced himself up, discarded his buckskins for plain no-nonsense pants, clean white shirt, braces and a stitched leather vest—nothing fancy, but good quality. New boots too. Good, but ordinary. He wore his hair shorter too, ever since that strange night in the snowbound line camp when he’d cut his braid off. He still wore it longer than most, but he kept it carefully trimmed. He looked like a solid citizen now. Somebody who knew horses and cattle. Somebody who could get his hands dirty when he had to, but kept them clean when he didn’t. Somebody who was sharp, but didn’t put on airs. Somebody you could depend on. Somebody you could trust.
If you tuck your descriptions in with the rest of the story and feed them in along with dialogue and other activities, it's impossible to separate them out. It's not necessary to step out of the story to give description in a separate wad. Details can be fed in as needed. I went through my novel and couldn't find any passages that were heavy with description. My descriptions tend to be fed in, as @obsidian_cicatrix suggested, via another character's POV, and were always connected to what that person thinks of the character they are seeing.
Another one from my story: It was a surreal experience, meeting the Freeholder. Just walking into his office was like a corporate version of an audience with the Great and Powerful Oz. But instead of a big floating head, behind the desk was Santa Claus in an Armani suit. His hair was snow-white was carefully cropped, his beard expertly trimmed, and his blue eyes twinkled from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He even gave a suspiciously merry, basso chuckle as he stood and extended his hand in greeting. That, of course, was where the resemblance to Old Saint Nick ended. Though half a head shorter, he must've had fifty pounds on me, all of it muscle. If he was Santa Claus, he'd swapped milk and cookies for creatine, and started bench-pressing the sleigh. The sleeves of his expensively tailored suit barely contained his bulging arms, and as I shook his broad, scar-lined hand, I could tell he was making an effort not to crush my hand.
Every inch of her curvy 5'2" frame was covered in yellow slime as she emerged from what our town once called "Bestadore". As she wiped it away, hands trembling as if she'd just see her beautiful life flash before her eyes, she slipped and fell to the ground. I rushed over to help her up. As I approached, I noticed a gleam in her eyes that I'd never seen before. It said, we're all okay now. I still remember staring into her big brown eyes, as I imagined kissing her luscious slime covered lips. Although her hair was drenched in yellow, I could see one of her beautiful black curls trying to escape the weight of the slime. Her cheeks rosey, and a smile so big and beautiful the God's wanted it for themselves. "Thank you Jake." She whispered as she took my hand, but all I could focus on was her deep dimple that appeared every time she smiled. She had me wrapped around her finger, and she didn't even know it.
they turned around a noticed a woman, probably a few uni's shorter than he was. her face had the signs of a forest native, indicated by the simplistic red tattoo, a line that starts from her left cheek to the right one, intensifying her green eyes. she wore a long set of gray robes that reached to her mid thighs, the ends of it slowly tapered off past her knees. a simple set of cotton trousers that reached to her lower calves were her only protection from the freezing nights Ica endures. Her left arm however, was replaced by an amalgamation of engraved metal plates forming the most basic shape of the arm and hand. upon noticing, she raised her left hand up showing the curious group that she would manipulate her prothestic at will. from where the metal meets flesh, a glowing red orb could be seen inside her creation, as well as 2 more, one where the forearm is connected, and another where her hand is attached. "Satisfied?" she asks, a small smile forming at her lips.
The cold vacuum of the void clung to Cassiopeia like the chill death grip of a lover; ever-present and inescapable. Her shields were raised but the sensors rarely registered temperatures above -270 degrees Celsius, unless she entered a solar system. Even then, If hull temperatures rose to an unsustainable level, emergency protocols diverted power from non-essential systems to shield integrity and engaged navigation systems to evade the thermal threat. It was what the humans would call a reflex action, like a flinch when struck by a physical blow. At least that was how they had described it. She was young by her terms. Only 44 Terran years old but she was the last of her sisters still surviving in the disparate imperial fleet. Only 8 of her kind were built in the end days of the Golgaren war but the others were destroyed within the first 6 months, unable to test out their Intuitive Strategic Learning programs that made them so valuable. The AI's embedded into each ship was capable of developing advanced tactics, infinitesimal commutation speeds and even complex personalities given time. Cassiopeia's sisters were simply swarmed by the enemy before they could analyse a way out and were outgunned by a superior force. She was lucky. As the last ship made, her crew compliment was smaller than the others and she had been assigned to evacuate the planet in the final assault. The years following that defeat she had learned much as she evaded attack after attack. With a skeleton crew and her 52 decks crammed with civilians, politicians and dwindling supplies, she harboured the last remnants of the human race within her protective embrace. She no longer looked at them as her mentors. As her intelligence had increased exponentially, she looked upon them as if they were her children. They needed her guidance and protection if they were to survive.
