You interest me, but I don't know if I do to you, so I'll just wait here in the corner while you take your time to see
Hi there! I am a literate/advanced roleplayer seeking others of the same type. I prefer roleplaying with female writers, mxf. I enjoy romance and action, and almost every genre, though I much prefer OC characters and I rarely do (but would be willing to try) some fandoms.
Science fiction, modern, post-apocalyptic (not zombies), fantasy, medieval, steampunk...I'm open to it all. I'd also love to do one in the time period that Downton Abbey takes place in. I'd also like to explore the theme of two brothers or best friends falling in love with the same girl.
I can do human, furry anthro, robot, mythical creature, or some strange combination of all of them. xD (Though I am mainly hoping to do human right now.)
There needs to be at least a minimum of four real paragraphs in every post, though more is preferred during intros, heavy action, and when the muse is flowing. You must be able to post at least a couple of times a week, although I am able to do up to several posts a day.
I write maturely (although I prefer fade-to-black during intimacy) and there is usually some level of violence (although I generally avoid senseless and extremely detailed gore). I enjoy swearing, as well. If you have any qualms about any of this, please let me know, and I will be happy to censor myself for you.
I prefer roleplaying through email or thread, although I will consider PM if that is the only thing that works for you.
I can play male or female characters well, but I sometimes prefer playing females (if we're not doubling) because a) I roleplay my characters very descriptively, keeping few thoughts hidden, and I feel like to play males realistically my mind has to be constantly in the gutter >.< (no offense to the lurking menfolk) and b) a lot of people really suck at roleplaying females, and I don't like having to deal with it. xD However if you are a good enough roleplayer the second concern should not be a problem.
I am ALWAYS looking for more roleplaying partners. Please do not hesitate to contact me. Just do keep in mind that I am fairly picky and may not decide to pursue a roleplay with you. That does not mean that you are not awesome. ^^
***I will need to see a sample of a typical roleplay post from you before we even begin concocting a setting and a plot.***
Unless I already have an intro ready, it would be preferable if you did it. I am sorry to be so picky, but I have to screen writers before I invest in them. I've been disappointed too many times.
However, you deserve the same from me, so here are a few examples...
SAMPLES OF MY WRITING:
Example of a typical mid-rp post for a dystopian society roleplay (closed):Spoiler
It was classically male that he should be enjoying this so much. Perhaps his arrogance and need to compensate for his previous humiliation put a further edge on it, but he would hardly have belonged to his gender if he did not find his companion more pleasing now. In this new situation, she was cast in the weaker role, having to lean on him literally and figuratively for support. It was not like her, at least, not like the her that he knew, although he did not know her well. Normally, she was abrasive, different, unafraid, bold, and wrong by every standard he had ever been raised to believe.
The very reasons for which he liked her made him unable to stand her, usually. Now, he was able to see through the chinks in her armor, to the more vulnerable girl inside. That was hard not to enjoy, difficult not to respond to, and he was not alone in these feelings.
Despite all that was happening for the first time for Amber, hardly having room for a spare thought in her head, she was still subconsciously enjoying Leo more than she ever had before, as well. She was a girl just as much as he was a boy. He had never been stronger than her before, and while Amber liked being the strongest, when she couldn't be, she appreciated a man's strength to be there for her. Here, Leo was the leader, he was the confident one. Yet he defended himself less, because he didn't need to. He showed her tenderness, just as she had shown it to him when he broke in the Low Rise. He had broken in her world at the sight of ugly death, just as the sight of beautiful death broke her here in his world. She appreciated this tenderness, this mercy, and with every passing moment, without knowing it, she felt closer to Leo. Things would be different between them now.
'Different' was, and had always been, the key word. Before they had met each other, all they had known was 'same.' When they met each other, they met 'different.' Different from their own people, different even from the group from which the other hailed. They collided like atoms that had never been meant to. Like the igniting of a hydrogen bomb, knowing each other began an unstoppable chain reaction, and it was only a matter of time before they blew up. Blew up their own lives, blew up the lives of their friends, and by extension, blew up society, blew up the whole damn system, and then set the whole world ablaze, to be reborn from the ashes.
They had no idea what was happening, no idea the events that they were about to set into motion. He was just a boy, and she was just a girl, albeit from two worlds which could not have been more different. Their fascination with each other, even their lack of understanding of each other, and occasional repulsion, worked to draw them together like magnets. If Low Risers were all positive charges, and High Risers were all negative charges, than Leo had been flipped to a negative, and Amber had been flipped to a positive. As soon as it was decided that they would both be in the Inbetween, the secret bar between the worlds in which alcohol was illegally served, it was impossible that they would not find each other. Each was as alluring and inescapable to the other as the other was to themself.
This was hard for both to imagine. Amber saw the terrifying perfection of the other women of the High Rise, and could not believe that any High Rise male could ever find her sufficient. As for Leo, he knew the background color of his feathers. Leo was far plainer than his fellow High Risers. He was the female peacock's dull plumage to her mate's vibrant ones. He was the geode yet uncracked, sitting beside lab created sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. He was forgotten next to cultured pearls and imitation diamonds. Yet looks can never be truly separate from soul. Leo, by very stint of his soul's discontent with artifice, was the most beautiful and true gem of all.
We can sense what we do not yet know, and Amber sensed Leo's inestimable value.
At Leo's query to her name, the Low Riser responded in a similar intimate whisper, "No. I named myself Amber after a stone I have never seen. They say it is the color of our gaslights. Have you seen it?" Their orangey-brass streetlamps cast a watery glow of amber light around each bulb, and these were the only sources of illumination in the Low Rise. It would be like High Risers naming themselves after an imitation of the sun. She had such faith.
After seeing the boy she knew being slaughtered more gruesomely than the most brutal Low Rise Cull fighter would ever do, Amber clung to Leo's words to keep from drowning. She had trouble regulating her breathing and her pace as they walked to his apartment, to keep her face stoic and not torn between rage and grief. Despite these overpowering emotions, her senses still had room to take in and be awed by the scenery. The gorgeous paintings that hung in the hallways of the apartment lobby stunned her into almost-forgetfulness, as everything about this world was meant to.
The elevator was indeed a foreign concept. It was like the trams that threaded the ceiling of the Low Rise, and she had often ridden those contraptions of death. The difference was, they did not go straight up. Amber braced herself in the corner and stared around the small room mistrustfully. When it moved, her face dropped into absolute shock. The movement was so smooth, but the sensation strange, of the ground dropping away below her. She decided she liked it. If Leo had not exited as though it were the most natural thing in the world, she might have stayed, pushing buttons and riding up and down the wonderful invention. In the Low Rise, they had no need of elevators, as they could only move horizontally. The sky was a steel platform for the High Rise.
Once he let go of the arm that he had been holding, she realized that her skin felt hot and itchy, and her hand was cramped. Yet she missed the presence of what had caused this. She gently fisted and unfisted her fingers a couple of times, to restore blood flow, and then closed her parasol. She walked through his living space, glancing over everything, with no thought of his desire for privacy. She touched one of the empty bottles of booze, and sniffed it, and then called to him, "If you were discovered with this, wouldn't you get...'snatched?'" It was bold and foolish for him to have it, then, and she wondered what had driven him to it. At the same time, she wondered, if unmarried men and women were allowed to go into rooms alone together, what prevented them from having sex? Sexual intercourse between unwedded couples was forbidden in the High Rise. But she did not ask him this question. Perhaps the laws were often disobeyed. Amber decided she did not want to know badly enough to risk making him aware of how curious she was about it.
She came back out of his room, setting her parasol and fan down on the first available surface, and then drifted to the window. As she moved, she ran her fingers over everything, cataloguing every alien texture. Everything was silk-smooth or butter-soft. The glass of his windows fascinated her, and she gently placed her hand against it, and stared at it in wonder. They had glass in the Low Rise, but not glass this clear, and never with a view behind it that was worth seeing.
The red woman with the red sky behind her looked ominous, foreboding, a promise of a new world order. No one could look at this picture and say that a Low Riser was less human, less beating with unique destiny and potential for cataclysmic change.
She had never looked more beautiful.
Amber chose this moment to respond to Leo's question, taking her time to weigh her thoughts. What did she think? "I don't understand," she finally said, quietly, looking at her fingers, leaving a hand print on the glass. She then turned her head and looked out the window at the city below and the sky, the sky, the neverending sky. She had never seen the sky before today, and the next time she would see it again would probably be when she came here to die. Her heart wrenched within her, and she did not know whether it was because the sky went on forever, or if it was because it was red like the blood of her friend, like that of her own blood which would soon be sacrificed to it. Did the sky turn red with his blood already? Was he a sacrifice to make this artificially perfect world continue to turn? Just another distraction to keep these people from knowing that they were already dead?
"I don't understand how a world so...so...gorgeous, can be wrong. What more could people want? Why would they kill? Why would they kill like that? I don't understand...this world is nothing like what I thought...and I...I don't know what to think." She turned to head to look at Leo, her brown eyes lost and afraid, but she had never looked more adult, as she confessed all that she did not know.
Intro for a pirate/fantasy roleplay (closed):Spoiler
"The port was bustling as usual, despite the early hour. The air was cool, and the spray from the ocean made the wind taste like salt, even on land. It was a beautiful day, the kind perfect for a do-over. The ship the man chose was less auspicious, but he was drawn to the derelict, small vessel. It had been a real beauty once, but it had the look of something almost zombiefied now. It's name, "The Siren's Song," was barely legible on the aft end of the ship, beneath stained plate-glass windows which were no longer translucent. Barnacles were clustered too high on the hull of her, the sea trying to reclaim her. Her wood was water-rotted, gray, and certain pieces of it seemed misplaced. The masts leaned, the statue of a nude woman on the piercing prow was deformed, making her look a monster. Wide boards extended on port and starboard, trailing off into jagged, broken edges several feet behind the poop deck, suspended in the air. Her sepia sails were gathered and bound with ropes, anchored at the dock. These ropes, including the ratlines, looked sufficiently strong, if not a little more bloated and fuzzy than regular ropes. Yet she was majestic. Not something that could ever be as good as new again, but then, the man liked under-appreciated things. A hidden treasure, that somehow managed to eek into the seaworthy category, like an old well-made machine that had far outlasted its time. He saw it as a project, that he could actually do some good on board. Or maybe he just liked being a big fish in a little pond. He had a generally unassuming and humble air, but then, isn't it the people who feel ignored that most crave recognition?
If the man was driven by any of these psychological factors (and who isn't) he was unaware of it. Unusual looking as the ship he boarded, if not more so, he strode up the plank while he looked around for the Boatswain. He had heard that they were recruiting at the tavern, and set off right away. Due to a...disagreement...with his previous captain, he had chosen to stay at this port when he last docked. A couple of weeks of companionship and lounging in the pub was enough to drive him mad with boredom. He had stopped praying, and let himself get drunker and drunker, a difficult feat for such a burly man. Not pushing himself physically was beginning to drive him insane. He just let his cells soak up more and more alcohol, having to be tossed out of the taverns at night sometimes. He'd squandered all his gold and gotten his meager belongings stolen. He'd started some fights that he couldn't finish, and had far overstayed his welcome. At the pub last night, he heard the men talking about that new "crap hole" of a ship, as they had called it, and the freak of nature who captained it. He'd gone out at night to look at it, and as he stared at it the moonlight, two thoughts came to his mind, both of them wry. The first was, "I know how you feel," and the second was, "That looks like a ship I'll die on." That had decided it. Willing himself back into sobriety with the force of self-control that was so characteristic of who he was, he'd eaten, submerged himself in the cold ocean, and spent the night hydrating and sleeping when he could. Sleep never came easily to him. It hadn't for so long.
When he found the man with the manifest, he stopped in front of the man he towered over. "Koledy Hunt, reportin' for duty. What posts're still open?" the Boatswain looked at him through a scared face so beaten up, it looked like the facial features had been rearranged by a child. Maybe that's where Koledy recognized him from... "Uh, nothin'. Cap'n filled the good slots first come first serve. We'll take as many able-bodied sailors's we can, though. Still need a swabbie an' a rigger, but..." the Boatswain gave him another timid stare. "We're not goin' ta' make ye do that."
Koledy nodded. "Young men are best for those jobs, 'n you and me are old aboard a ship," the man agreed, hoping to ease the Boatswain's distrust of him. It was true that pirates lived short, danger-riddled lives. They were aged prematurely on the rough seas by conditions, warfare, and illness. Of course, avarice and hatred did not do much for a person's soul, either. "Where be the captain?"
"She stays mostly tah 'er cabin. Said she'll come out once we 'r ready to sail." The Boatswain leaned in. "Mind yer step 'round her, mate. There be dragons in these waters." The man found it hard not to feel contemptuous of someone who would say that about a woman and a captain. Everyone knew perfectly well not to step on the toes of a captain, and didn't need to be reminded. Shouldn't need to be reminded, no matter the gender. Contradictorily, he thought the Boatswain weak to fear a woman. With a simple nod, he moved off, staying topside, but examining the ship.
Though Koledy spoke of himself as old, and in years he was definitely past his prime to be a pirate and not a captain, he did not look it. At early thirties, he had been preserved rather well considering his lifestyle as a pirate. The secret to this was that he hadn't been at it for long. Not something he advertised. Though a few years was plenty respectable for one such as he, his previous profession was not, and would make him seem weak in his fellow outlaw's eyes. Dark chocolate brown skin gave him some level of protection from the sun, so he had not weathered so fast as the burnt-to-a-crisp palefaces. He had a frame that was naturally big, but not naturally muscled. His torso, while utterly devoid of flabbiness, looked almost shrunken in comparison with his powerfully built arms. They were long, with big, calloused hands, and though a cream poet's shirt hid most of this, his sleeves were rolled back to halfway up his impressive forearms. His physique was a practicality, not the result of intention. He did a lot of heavy lifting aboard ships, being one of the biggest, and the more muscular he got, the more people expected him to move crap for them all the time. Vicious cycle. It was actually pretty annoying.
He was tall, and his padded hairstyle made him seem quite a bit taller. The black English-African had a head full of thick brown dreads, bleached a few shades lighter than his skin by the sun. Each dread was abnormally fat, the thickness of three of his fingers, and they had blunt edges, as though they had recently been cut. Even freshly cut, they hung to below his shoulder blades, and he tied them back with a scrap of fluttery red cloth. What was truly interesting about his hair, though, was the amount of feathers that were tied into it. Most feathers were brown, black, or white, but there were also some vibrant parrot feathers in there, they were tied into his dreads, along with some beads and other jangley bits and bobs. Tied back like that, it gave the impression of a molting bird with its crest feathers down.
His attire was also odd, being that he wore simple loose black leggings with an egyptian-style covering. It was a large red piece of fabric, wrapped behind him and then tied in a drape in front in two narrow flaps that hung past his knees. His boots, instead of being pirate in nature, were instead more like Samurai shoes without the split toe, and their fabric wrapped in a textured way midway up his calves. The pants were tucked into these, and his shirt was tucked into his pants, beneath the sarong. His unusual dress gave him almost a kind of elegance, especially when worn by someone with such an intelligent, high-cheekboned face."
Hasty character description mid-rp for historical fiction Gladiator rp (closed):SpoilerJulius was aglow with this praise, quivering like an excited puppy about to wet himself. "Oh yes, he's very obedient. Docile as a lamb when he's not in the ring. Quite gentle with the ladies, so they say. He's done a lot of sparring in the outer lands, bit of a sand flea if you know what I mean. I thought he had promise, so I snapped him up, but of course his fighting needs to become more stylized. He needs to draw it out more. I'll tell my head trainer you said so. Until later, Lucius, Valeria," and he finally slipped away, bowing deferentially.
The gladiators had walked out of the arena, and slaves had run out to rake over the sands, covering up the small patch of blood, and neatening out the footprints. The crowd was abuzz as they discussed the fight and the new warrior, whom the women were already quite taken with. Some of the men complained that he wasn't brutal enough, but like Lucius, they thought he might have promise.
By the time the next gladiators came out, everyone was ready to watch again. There were several more pairs of fighters before the day's events were over, but few were as exciting as the first. None of the men were so handsome, nor so agile. It did become more bloody, one man getting pierced under the rib, and another having his death called for by the crowd. The sand absorbed his blood greedily, but it could not be raked away when the slaves came out afterwards.
When all was said and done, Julius' older slaves were loaded into a carriage completely enclosed in bars. The gladiators inside of it were not shackled, and they sat on benches beside each other and nursed their wounds. His brown horses pranced impatiently as the crowds swelled around them, leaving the arena en masse, but the driver held them steady. Julius' newest gladiator stood outside of the carriage, his wrists shackled so that the passerbys would feel safe. Most of the traffic were merely gladiators and their owners, however.
Up close, the gladiator looked quite different than he had from far away. He was far more muscular than he had appeared beside that rhinoceros of a man. He was taller than Julius, his owner, by several heads. His armor had been removed, revealing patches of skin that were slightly less dirty. His entire body was grimy and slick, and covered with fine, curly brown hair. He was virile and dirty and the perfect specimen of a man, as opposed to the overly-groomed and perfumed roman models of manhood.
The planes of his face were sharp and rugged. A short amount of stubble coated it. His full lips were chapped and cracked, though they somehow managed to still look soft, beneath his harsh noise, which was ever-so-slightly crooked from being broken. One long scar trailed from the top of his right cheek to below the corner of his mouth, looking more like a crease in his weathered skin than an injury. The scars on the rest of him were not always so inconspicuous, and they were numerous. He wore nothing but a cheap pair of sandals, not what a Roman would wear outside, and the dark brown burlap loin cloth, wrapped snugly around his muscular thighs. His belly button showed over top of it, coated in more of a concentration of hair. His ears were perfect, unmarred, and his straight brown hair, short though it was, managed to catch a breeze and become ruffled.
"Here he is!" Julius cried as they approached. "The gladiator who is going to make me rich!" The slave, with his graceful anatomy, did not bother to lift his eyes to his betters, keeping his gaze instead on the ground before his feet. That was until he saw the ruffling edge of Valeria's skirt, the wind conforming it to her shapely legs. He looked up, eyes trailing her from from foot to head as he did so. His expression did not change, it was blank, and passive, and just a little bit 'don't screw with me' under all that stoicism. Once his eyes reached hers, they did not wander back down to admire her pleasing figure. Instead, they remained locked on her face, his own showing no intensity. No, his face was relaxed, save for that tightness around his mouth which made it seem like he'd like to sucker punch Julius, who kept slapping at his elbow to get him to do or say this or that.
Yet his eyes...his eyes were a burning aquamarine, shocking as they peered out of his bronze skin and beneath darker eyebrows. Anything that they looked at could not help but to feel pinned into place, scorched with greenish-blue fire, the very hottest temperature of flame. Perhaps that was why he did not bother gracing many things with his unbroken gaze. This woman, he did.
Julius' voice droned on, cajoling his slave to "flex for them, say hello in your native tongue - no, say 'I'll cut off his head' or..." but no one really cared, and even Julius himself did not expect the gladiator to act on his every whim. If the slave attempted it, he would only be interrupting the profusions of his master, so his lips remained firmly shut, his eyes unblinking, only barely moving his body when Julius would give him an unwelcome poke to his bruised ribs.
Modern mermaid fantasy mid-rp post (closed):SpoilerUnaware of everything save for the dreamy memories flitting briefly through his mind, even that soon began to fade, and though life returned to him, the vignettes of his life did not. Consciousness was still a long ways off, but for now, everything was black to him. When memory did return to him, it was different than when his life had 'flashed before his eyes.' Though he gave no external sign of it, consciousness was beginning to creep over him, like the fingers of dawn.
It started with the sacred remembrance of a mermaid's song. It was an eery sound, but so beautiful, one would go towards it willingly, even if it were death. He did not know how long he drifted, cradled in the bosom of those sonar notes, but it was without beginning and without end. It connected with his soul, touched him in a timeless way. It was the nurturing murmur of his mother's voice when he was still in the womb. It was the lifegiving blood of amniotic fluid. It was the earth that would take him when he died, and return his mortal form to dust. It was the closest he had ever come to hearing god speak to him. It was an alien language, one which made no logical sense to his mind, but it felt to him like the native tongue of his spirit.
His memory warped the sound, gave it more vowels, carried it in undulating patterns which rose and fell, cacooned him and then drifted back. As he listened, his awareness very slowly widened until he could feel sand beneath his fingers, and a sore ache all over his body. There was a sharper throb on his frontal lobe, and a sticky wetness there that was different than the chill damp on the rest of him. And a weight...a painful pressure, so unpleasant after that surreal drifting, as reality returned to him. He could also hear the sounds of birds, of wind rustling palm leaves. Further away, the whisper of waves lapping a shore, and startlingly close, the occasional scratch of microscopic rocks scraping together as something on top of them moved. These sounds were different than the song he heard in his head. He heard these noises with his ears, which forced him to differentiate, and begin to realize that this incredible music was a figment of his imagination, a memory he had never had.
Breaths came stronger through his lungs, raising and lowering his chest. They now made an audible, steady sound. As the sun reached his face, he felt the warmth, but did not stir. The light shone richly on his tanned skin, making it look deeper, and more alive. Before he had resembled a waxy corpse. The nymph had kissed life back into him, but now, the sun reanimated him with a caress. Where his skin was thinner, the light reacted differently. Through his exposed earlobes, it shone red, casting tiny pink reflections on the sand beneath him. It highlighted the pulse which jerked through an artery in his neck. It formed narrow shadows behind each vein on the back of his hand, a valley behind each mountain, as though every inch of his skin was a miniature landscape. His eyelids looked nearly white underneath the already-strong sunlight, and his eyes beneath them showed faintly through like dark, circular shadows.
Then, they began to move. These veiled circles roved from side to side in twitchy patterns, and his dark, thick eyebrows furrowed as if loathe to be woken by the unrelenting light. The mystical sound of that voice had faded away to nothingness, the siren song had left him bereft. When he began to let go of it, he suddenly heard one last note, one resounding chime of that unearthly knell, which ended the memory for good, but stayed with him for a long time, resounding through his soul long after he had forgotten it.
With it, his nostrils flared as he suddenly drew in a breath through his nose instead of his parted lips, and then he coughed. Eyes still shut, body still limp against the ground, a couple of small coughs wracked him, making his torso jerk slightly. He turned his head, grimacing harder, and then slitted his eyes open. There was so much pain in his throat, from all the leftover salt, but the sunlight lancing into his head hurt him too. His head wound throbbed so much, it seemed like an atmospheric pressure which actually pulsated against him from above. His eyesight was blurry at first, offering him only a sense of light, and of cheerful colors of blue and green.
Needing to breathe more than he needed to see, Sterling lifted his head and tried to roll to the side, but did not make it very far before he swayed. He had never felt so nauseous, nor more in pain. It was incredibly disorienting. Nearly panting from the exertion of the motion, he winced against the light and slowly looked up, forcing his eyes to adjust to things that were less close than the grains of sand coating his wet sleeve.
That was when he finally glimpsed her. A woman so beautiful, his first response was to believe that he was dreaming. That notion only lasted a moment, as the pain was far too realistic and specific to be of the stuff of dreams. Yet she looked like a mirage, a figment of his imagination, transposed over this dreadfully real environment, the product of a nasty head injury. Her hair was white, with iridescent lights in it, almost as though each individual strand were see-through and refracted the sunlight into rainbows. They did not make hair that color. And what girl would actually wear her hair that long?
Her skin was so pale, as if it had never seen the sun, but here she was, sitting buck naked under the full blaze of it. Skin that white belonged to a redhead, and would have picked up UV rays faster than a pretty hitchhiker. Her skin almost hurt to look at, though his eyes were still overly sensitive to the light. Why, he wondered, was he hallucinating nude women? More importantly, why was he here? When he wondered this, his mind conjured up a brief, confusing image of a storm at night, black waters, and a rush of sound, but he had to grimace and shut his eyes to it. The memory was too chaotic and overwhelming right now.
All he could concern himself with was that very moment. It was already too much for him. Thankfully he also did not remain fixated on the woman, and missed her scales, and better still, her gills. Even what he could glimpse of her nakedness could not hold him now. Laying on his right side, leaning on that same forearm, he brought his free arm around slowly to press the heel of that hand - covered with sand and dirt - to his face, wiping it over his left eye and leaving a smear of sludge there. As he flexed that shoulder, he felt stabbing pains shooting down his spine. Dear lord, what had happened to him?
The word came to him and reverberated through his mind. Shipwrecked how and with whom, he had no immediate recollection. Sitting up slowly and with a groan, he began to feel out his legs and arms, realizing with relief that nothing was broken. The vegetation wrapped and tangled around him was a hindrance, which he began to pull off with an irritation which gave him strength. His muscles protested against this use, and his head pounded with a vengeance, but he ignored it until he was mostly free, and then gingerly touched his head injury. Pulling his fingertips away, he saw sticky, fresh blood, and he frowned.
This human flesh wound reminded him of his mysterious companion (who, if still there, was likely not an imaginary person) and he looked over at her, choking out a raspy, "Are you alright?" His voice was not the velvety, deep concoction that it usually was. It sounded rusty with disuse and possibly too much nicotine, but this was not the case. His vocal chords felt like beef jerky: dried, salty, and inflexible.
He realized that the rest of him was in fine working order, however, as he looked at the woman. Half-dead and mostly drowned, he could still appreciate her exposed femininity. Apparently all that was necessary for him to be able to think sexually was a pulse. She appeared unhurt, in fact, she appeared downright /perfect./ Except for a bloodless cut on her ribcage, which did not look so good. His brows furrowed again in concern, but supposing her to be very self-conscious of her naked state (or if she was too disoriented to be, then he should be on her behalf) he said, "here," and began unbuttoning his flannel shirt. His fingers were stiff and clumsy, and it took him awhile to get all the buttons undone, and even longer to then peel it off of his torso (to which his body protested most adamantly, decrying abuse). The black v-neck tee shirt he wore beneath it was mostly unscathed, but wet and clung to him as his flannel shirt had done. He held out the proffered article of clothing, and did his best not to look upon her points of interest, being more of a gentleman than was usual for boys his age.
Science fiction rp intro-ing female character (closed):Spoiler"NO! No! Jonathan! Oh my god, oh my god," sobbed a woman at the end of the line. The one holding her jerked her hair roughly in an attempt to shut her up, and her protests were reduced to a sort of hyperventilating breathing-whimpering. Her mouth was contorted in horror, and her eyes were wide with terror. She was helpless, her long white throat exposed, her hands grasping the wrists of the one who held her as if to scalp her. It was not the sort of scene one could witness and ever be the same after. Neither for her, nor for them.
For her, these had been her friends. If she did not intimately know all the people in this line, then she at least knew them by acquaintance. Jonathan was a first-rate medical officer. He had asked her out a few times, and though she had turned him down, they remained friends in that sort of awkward way when one party has a crush on the other, and they both know it. Her best friend, Josie, had been in the communication room. Onboard were her bosses, her flings, her petty enemies. Onboard had been her life, and her future. To witness the slaughter of so many - to know there was nothing one could do while those around them died, and death crept ever closer to oneself...it was a nightmare from which a person could never fully awaken.
Yet to inflict this type of nightmare on another was almost a worser fate. To look into the dark eyes of this woman, to see her suffering and do nothing to stop it...that was a scar that would be left on any heart still beating. That obviously did not apply to Madam. The woman tried to watch her soulless enemy from the corner of her eye, as she could not move her rigidly-held head. She spared no glances for the cyborg, or any other personnel who were party to this firing line. Madam was the specter of death, and she kept her gaze upon her as best she could.
At any other time, this undone creature might have been a great beauty. She had large almond-shaped eyes, and a sheet of thick, dark brunette hair which had formerly been in a high, sleek ponytail, but had since become quite mussed, and reached the small of her back in tears and tangles. Smooth skin was blotchy and red with anxiety, and her expressive brown eyes were no more than pools of anguish, which far from being pleasant to look into, were like looking into the depths of a condemning hell.
She was clad in the uniform of her station. Thick, spongy white fabric of high-tech weave in a top and pants combo, edged in a touch of navy blue and silver. Brown combat boots were her own contribution, as well as sparkling diamond earring studs in each ear, one of which was splattered in blood not her own. Strapped to her hip was a white holster which had once housed a gun, but that had been either lost in the fight or forcibly removed by one of these lackeys.
"They don't know anything! Please, don't kill any more of them! They don't know the trade routes! That wasn't in their security clearance, please, /let them go,/" she begged, bravely and perhaps foolishly, her slender body thrashing slightly with her words, fingernails digging in perhaps subconsciously to the one who restrained her. Perhaps she should not have made her comrades so disposable, but disposable they were to their enemy, anyway. Regardless, she was turning the heat from them to herself, or at least intending to, by demanding Madam's attention.
Tears still tracked silently from her eyes over the man's gruesome death, rolling down her slick face and pooling on the fabric that covered her collar bones. Water resistant as it was, it was already becoming damp. Yet she forced herself to pull it together, for the good of the other six remaining survivors. One could see her struggle, a tiny caged bird fluttering and beating its wings against its prison in fright, while the tiger licks its lips before it. Still, she tried to put authority into her words, layering the panic.
"I - will try to help you, if I have guarantee of their safe return to GOV. I am familiar with the computers, I can save you hours in getting past the - in getting past the firewalls. These are /civilian workers,/ /innocent lives,/" she continued to plead.
"Lucy, no," an older woman one person over whispered. If this 'Lucy' swore to stay and help, there was no way the young woman would live. Moreover, to betray GOV to this band of thugs? To save their lives? Even if some of them were nonmilitary personnel, they all had taken an oath to GOV. Their lives were in service to the greater good. Lucy knew that, they all did. It didn't mean they didn't want to live, or would not have guiltily accepted her sacrifice.
Lucy's eyes tightened in heroic defiance. It was only six lives, after hundreds had been lost today. She would not give up defending her allegiance nor the people who served it, until she drew her last breath.
The following are plot ideas...
Intro for a fantasy roleplay which takes place roughly in the medieval/dark-ages in a village. Main character is a shape-shifting guardian of an enchanted forest. (OPEN):SpoilerA pearly mist lay like a blanket along the foliage-cushioned floor of the forest. Like most mornings there, although the temperature was warm, there was an overlaying chill which seemed to be directly correlated to the mist, like a freezing rain in the middle of a summer day. It was disconcerting, a cold that got into the bones and made one shiver, while the mist crept up your legs and drenched you to the heart. The forest creatures seemed to go about their regular business, apparently unaware of the air of unnatural creepiness that hung over the woods: an invisible veil. Birds sang to the morning, high in the branches, out of sight, in this snow white forest. Enchanted-like, no animals could be seen, although their pleasant noises could be heard. If a sign of an animal was glimpsed, it was short-lived. The pointy, sharp-eyed face of a young fox was caught by surprise beneath a bush, but only a second later, the tip of its fluffy tail was disappearing with a swish. A squirrel eating its breakfast in the nook of a branch froze and then vanished, scurrying around to the other side of the tree. It's nails on the water-darkened bark made noise of its retreat for longer than seemed normal, as though sound was amplified here. A trick of the mind, similar to what happened to the ears when one was afraid in the dark.
Waist-high ferns obscured the bases of evergreens with trunks so large, one would not be able to span them with their arms. Their rough textile skins were a dark reddish brown, and if fingers touched them, they would be springy, so full of water the chunks of bark were almost soft. They had, after all, been soaking in a heavy mist all night. Their crowns soared to the heavens, almost obscuring a morning sky still an expressionless light soot color. Spindly needle-coated branches were threaded with raindrops that slipped off when touched; explosions of isolated rainfall when an animal gave a start or a passer-by pushed through. Fat orbs of water sat on the wide fern leaves like mini fortune-telling glass balls, casting bewildering reflections of a 360 degree forest on their mirroring surface. When the slippery foliage was pushed through and then released, as the leaves slithered back together, hardly any drier from the encounter, they seemed to whisper menacingly "you will never get out, you will never get out, you will never ever get outtttt..."
Indeed there was a claustrophobia about this hushed, dreamy place. Then suddenly, with almost no warning, the intruder would get to a place where she could see into a clearing. The ferns dwindled to a more reasonable size, and the more narrow trees held back to skirt a small circular glade with short grass and tiny-petalled wildflowers. It would be what was in this clearing that would draw her up short. A large stag was grazing peacefully, but he was more unlike any other stag than this forest was unlike any other forest. His pelt was a touchable chinchilla-grey, lightening to silver where the light hit it. Eye-confusing gold highlights seemed to undulate over the muscular counters of the sleek coat. The ends of each shaft of his hair was hollow, allowing light to pass through it, creating an ever-shifting silver glitter like a Bengal cat's fur. This look was intensified by the droplets of water that coated him, glimmering like translucent diamonds. His dainty hooves were a murky brown, and the fur above them was wet, and parted, the only thing that made him appear real. He took a step so that his long neck could reach another bite of grass. The step took him through the path of a bunch of wildflowers, and the petals stuck to his damp ankles. His white teeth made a lush tearing sound, though his chewing was nearly silent.
He had long, sparse black eyelashes that lanced over half-closed eyes that did not bother to look up. This deer was not on his guard. There must not be many hunters that ventured this deep into his forest, or any people at all. The fur on his muzzle was cloud-white, as was the fluff on his chest, and the smooth contour of his underbelly. His tail gave a switch, revealing that flash of white, that flag of warning he didn't have the sense to put up yet. One large, soft ear flicked away a tiny bug, which must not have been satisfactory because he then shook his whole great head, droplets dancing from his six-point brown antlers. He was about to go back to grazing when he must have heard a noise, or caught a strange smell, for his velvety nose suddenly whipped up, and his large, gentle midnight blue eyes zeroed in on the intruder. His face was remarkably intelligent for a cervine, and it showed utter shock. Enough shock to freeze him there for only a moment, unless she started to advance on him.
Idea for a romantic, heartrending, life-long-loves-who-were-separated roleplay (OPEN):Spoiler
Two high school sweethearts get separated by college, and the girl gets married. She's happily married to a nice guy, but no matter how hard she tries, she can never forget about, and stop loving, the guy. She has no idea if he feels the same. They were going to get married way back when, but it just hadn't worked out. They both move on and live their lives, but she always wonders if she made the wrong choice. One day, she decides to go find out.
The guy (your character) lives in a small town in the north. He's a musician with long blonde hair, and not exactly a looker. The girl is pretty, but a bit of a mess emotionally. They fell in love back in high school, and were everything to each other. They tried long-distance, but it didn't work out. Both were religious, and felt like they were supposed to move on with their lives. So the girl got married to her next boyfriend, thinking that she would eventually fall out of love with her ex. Instead, not only did the feelings not go away, but they became stronger. She dreams about seeing him, and is torn and guilty over her feelings. She loves her husband, doesn't believe in divorce, and doesn't think that she would ever be unfaithful. Eventually, she goes back to their home town, believing that all she wants to know is IF he feels the same way, or if she's just crazy and needs to get over it.
If this plot sounds good to you, there's a bit more to it, mostly details. You have to really enjoy writing angsty, deep, intricate internal stuff. Not a lot of high-powered action here, it's mostly just emotional suppressed romance stuff. ^^
Also a link to a one on one roleplay I am currently in, in which I play the lead female character: http://roleplayerguild.com/showthrea...ns-of-The-Past
For more information about me, please check out this link: http://subeta.net/forums/view/870021
Thank you so very much for your time; I hope to hear from you!
Last edited by OhGodOfWriting; 04-08-2013 at 01:58 PM. Reason: Added a new plot idea!
You interest me, but I don't know if I do to you, so I'll just wait here in the corner while you take your time to see
Seems interesting ^.^ I'll PM you a sample of my writing.
And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair
I very nearly passed out when I saw the length of your intro post! That post alone is probably the length of a daily word count for NaNo! I am incredibly interested and will scrounge about for a typical RP post to PM you
I'm interested. If you want a sample of my typical post, you can look through the RPs I've linked in my signature, because I feel like you should view all my work, the good and the bad. As you can tell, my post length varies on what I'm given. If you give me two bad paragraphs, I'll give you two bad paragraphs. If you give me long pretty posts, like your sample, then I'll give you the same in return. All of the RPs I'm in is stuff I consider casual, but I'm getting tired of the small poorly written posts. If you want an example of the best I can do, just skim through my post on Wildland Trials. I have some plot ideas also linked in my signature if you would like to skim through that. If you don't like any of those, then I'm willing to collaborate on more.
PM me if your interested! I usually post several times a day, but I am susceptible to a few week hiatus. I'll be sure to warn you if I'm going on hiatus though.
To Those I'm Rping With Currently!
I've been replying slowly, but there's not much reason behind it. No, I haven't been busy. Yes, I still have an immense amount of free time. The problem is this, there are some RPs that I favor more than others and it's slowing down my response time. I now that some of you are aware with how I do things, but I'll explain. The person that has been waiting the longest for a response get's responded to first and I work my way up. This system was created so that I could respond to you all equally and not leave any of you out, especially when I'm busy. The problem is that I haven't been busy lately, but the RPs are still building up. I'm favoring some RPs more than others and once one that I don't favor comes up, I just stop all replies until one I do favor comes up. In an attempt to stop this, I'm going to continue my RPs for a few weeks, because I will be busy soon so I can't just go for one week, and decide which ones can keep my interest and which ones can't.
Some RPs aren't keeping my interest and it's slowing down my replies for all of the RPs. I'll solve this by cutting RPs when things slow down in my life to ensure that the remaining ones will all get equal amounts of love.
I hate to be mean that way, but I felt like you guys deserved to know why my replies were being slow, and don't go making assumptions about yours! I'm trying my best to regain interest in these RPs, and it's working for the most part.
Looking for more 1x1 RPs.
- A minimum of 5 paragraphs, 5-7 sentences per paragraph.
- No fandoms
- Rarely romance
- No sex
- Good grammar
- Threads only. PMs are reserved for me to discuss my ever growing list of RPs.
- If you don't want to/can't continue the RP, tell me. I'm here because i have way too much free time and I'm sick of waiting for posts that will never come.
Note: If I'm in an RP that doesn't follow these I'll tire of it quickly.
Character Sheet Dump
My 1x1 RP Ideas
Byd Coll (The Casual RP that I'm trying to glue together)
Fiefdoms with a Twist (A high-casual RP I need more members for)