I would say that I'm very eloquent as a writer. Word choice is important to me and description as well. I'm very good at conveying the emotional tone of the story and the individualized characters. I'm also very good weaving a story of many different characters. I usually write in the third person-it is my strongest suit. I am also good at personal narratives. I tell a story like a movie does. I do not always rely on dialogue for content-when my character speaks, it is usually adding to plot or character development. I don't like meaningless chatter (only when necessary). I believe I am also good at character development, most of my fanfictions are to help me practice it. As a writer, I like my stories to be grounded in history/ reality. I'm good at weaving my research (names/dates) into my story, and try my damndest to make it as accurate as possible.
Here's a little character sample I took out of one of my character development RPGs-not perfect, but you can get an idea of how I like to write:
I stood just outside of the dinning car, out on deck. The sea and sky were one mass of darkness, I sucked in another drag of my cigarette, watching the white smoke be consumed by the abyss we were sailing in.
It was rather horrid, how all these things turned out. I hadn't fathomed life to have hit such a rock bottom, but then I supposed that, as in all cases of life being a rather cruel bitch (not crueler than my wife, of course)...things always had the propensity to be worse.
So there was no point to really living, those suicidal cads had the right idea to do themselves in ahead of schedule.
I shrugged and flicked the butt into the water and watched it disintegrate into the churning waves.
Now, for appearances sake, I'll make this dinning business quick.
I turned and began my way to the dinning cart, the rock of the waves unable to phase my steady steps. Reaching for the cart door, I caught my reflection in the window pane.
The white, fitted dining suit, tailored by the finest Berlin could offer. Pristine cuffs and collar, a small ever green kerchief tucked into my smoking pocket. My ashen blond hair parted methodically three quarters down the middle and slicked down with brilliantine. I would've been the picture of a handsome aryan were it not for my face, the angular bone structure, the unsettling, dead blackness of my sardonic eyes-now, all consumed in shadow. The fine illumination on my scar. With the absurd nothingness of my expression, I was in truth the perfect picture of monstrosity.
I opened the cart door and strode in.