Hello there. If you can't tell from the tags or the title, I really love a good medieval fantasy. Low fantasy, high fantasy, everything in between. Magic, dragons, elves, faeries, assassins, and everything even slightly whimsical. And all of it twisted into the darkest Brother's Grimm shit you've ever seen. I will not shy away from the macabre or brutal, or the creepy or the strange. I want to write something that'll push my boundaries and hopefully yours as well.
I'm looking for something new, something fantastic. Something I've never done before.
I'm Eh. I hope we'll make some magic happen.
~
Here are my guidelines. My partner must be able to write with decent grammar, spelling, and punctuation. I would also love a bit of length. A few paragraphs?
I need some sort of romance, pretty please. Even if our characters don't get all fluffy, I need something to happen. Anything. Even smut will do, though I'd prefer something with a bit more substance.
As I said, I don't shy away from the dark side of things. Swearing, gore, and other mature themes are welcome. I obviously do not write rape, incest, or anything else of the sort, though some characters may have experienced past trauma.
I can play both male and female characters with proficiency, but I tend to have a fondness for MxM pairings.
I can reply multiple times a day with well-written responses and I love to brainstorm stuff OOC. There's no fun if we can't be friendly outside of the thread.
I also only roleplay in PMs. If you want to speak with me about a roleplay, please message me there.
Examples of my writing!
Aleksander smelled the smoke before he saw the fires. And even if he'd missed the smoke, his horse surely didn't. Enmity tossed her head, snorting quietly at the stench, and he lightly nudged her with a knee to bring her to a stop. He tilted his head, one delicately pointed ear twitching as he listened. Even Enmity quieted herself. Off in the distance, quiet laughter. The faintest clank of chains. Soft weeping. He was strangely thrilled by the sound.
He'd get to fight today.
He quietly swung himself down to the ground and led Enmity a few hundred feet away, clicking his tongue to get her to stay. If a horse could roll its eyes, then that's what she was doing. "Just stay, you ornery lout," he mumbled, loosening his daggers in their sheathes. He pulled his cloak closer around himself and tugged the hood over his head, then vanished into the shadows.
He was night and silence and shadow. He made his way to the tall grasses just outside the camp clearing, grateful for the way the wind made the plains sigh and shift. It made stealth so easy. Not that stealth was hard for him anyways, especially with a group like the one he gazed upon now.
The men and women laying themselves down to sleep numbered no more than a dozen, and they left only one guard on watch. In the very center of the clearing was a wagon overfilled with slaves, all chained and collared. He noticed one in particular with slightly purple chains, which gave him pause. A rare magic-user, then. Aleks could communicate with animals and light a candle, but that was as far as his magical abilities went.
He wondered if she'd be able to help him fight... But she was in the center of the wagon, squished by the others, and getting to her would make more noise than would be worth it. So he turned his attention back to the slavers. And he settled himself.
He waited for two hours. Long enough for the sleeping slavers to dream deeply and long enough for the guard to get bored and tired. Aleks quietly rose from his position and circled the camp through the high grasses, until he was crouched only feet from the sentry. He pulled his daggers from his belt, flipped them in his hands, and took three silent steps forward. The sentry turned just as his dagger sliced up, across the woman's throat.
Her blood sprayed against his cloak and across his face. He licked it from his lips and grimaced at the taste. Oily, rotten. The blood of a drunk. He caught the back of her tunic as she fell, her body hitting the ground with a soft thump.
And then he whirled through the rest of the camp like Death incarnate.
Distantly he heard screaming that wasn't coming from the people falling to his blades, but the quickest of glances told him he wasn't needed. Those purplish chains were wrapped around a slaver's neck. The sight had Aleks grinning, baring his fangs with the thrill of the hunt, and he threw himself into the fighting.
He kicked and slashed and dodged like the three Devils of the Abyss had personally trained him. He took one or two blows, a punch to the ribs or a slash to his leg, but nothing was stopping him. Two, five, eight were cut down before him like stalks of wheat. At one point, he danced away from two opponents and ripped off his cloak, sending it flying at the two men. They wasted their time and their lives batting it out of the air. With a roar, Aleks sent a kick at the first man that snapped his neck and sent him crashing into his friend.
The man hit the ground and had a dagger in his throat before he could scream.
And then everything was quiet. Everything was still. Aleksander rose to his feet, yanking his weapon from the slaver's throat with a soft squelch. He wiped the blood off on the man's shirt, sheathed his daggers, then started looking for the keys to those chains. He made quite a sight without his cloak. His hands and wolf mask were splattered with blood, and though his black hair was tied back it was furiously trying to escape the leather cord that bound it. He wasn't particularly tall, but his body was lean with muscle from his years spent fighting and killing. Though only the lower half of his face could be seen below the mask, his mouth was wickedly curved in a way that brought to mind silk sheets and soft sighs.
In a word, he was alluring.
He found the keys within a few minutes of searching, then went to the cart to free the slaves. Instead of unlocking the chains himself, he tossed the keys to the woman in the anti-magic chains. "Free yourself, then the others. Good work with that one," he said, nodding to the suffocated slaver. His voice, when not shouting out in battle, was very deep. Deep, and raspy as if he'd been growling or screaming for hours.
