Fable — Roleplayer Guild

- Fable’s Interest Check -
Advanced | Novella | Multi-para

Hello there! I’m Fable (or nomdebloom, depending on where you found me), and I’m a +25 roleplayer seeking a partner or two. I have around 15 years worth of roleplaying/writing experience under my belt and have managed to settle firmly into a particular style of writing--3rd person, past-tense. My average post length is around four paragraphs and my posting frequency is about 2-3 times per week (though this varies depending on work schedule). I’m pretty friendly and enjoy OOC chat on Discord between replies; I get a real kick out of imagining different scenes for the characters in each story as well as working out their personalities and backstories.

I will happily tell you more about myself if needed, but I think this covers the basics!

- Rules & Expectations -

+21 Only
This isn’t a hard and fast rule, per say, but you’ll have to convince me if you don’t technically meet this requirement. I will absolutely NOT write with anyone younger than 18. I, myself, am 27 and would prefer to write with individuals who are around my own age.

MxF Romance Only
I don’t mean to put people off, but MxF is the only romantic pairing I am comfortable writing. It should be noted that I require at least the potential for romance in all of my plots. To offset this rather rigid rule, I will say that I am willing to play both male and female characters--though you should NOT assume that I will automatically play male. I dislike it when writers insist that they will only play their own gender as it seems incredibly narrow-minded and, frankly, insulting.

No Smut
I will be honest--I’m not talented at writing sex scenes. I’m not opposed to them, but they are not what I am interested in and should be used sparingly. If our characters show compatibility and seem headed down that route then we will discuss it, but I am not here to satisfy your sexual fantasies.

Google Docs for IC
This is my preferred medium, not only because there is no limit on word count, but because it is easy to make documents visually pleasing and stories are easily searchable. I can be talked into email instead, of course, but I don’t enjoy the format nearly as much.

Discord for OOC
This is kind of mandatory. Roleplaying is my main creative outlet but also my main social outlet. I want to be friends with my partners and hear about how their day is going or exchange memes. As stated previously, I enjoy plotting and find that it is easiest to do in the context of Discord.

Do Not Pester Me
I don’t think I need to remind most of you that ROLEPLAYING IS A HOBBY. I do not owe anyone replies and will get to them when I am able to sit down and write them. I do my best to alert partners to absences and delays, but if you start pinging me repeatedly I will become grumpy. To ensure that you have read this item in particular, tell me the name of your favorite book when you contact me.

Provide a Writing Sample
I request samples for several reasons, not the least of which is to check for style compatibility. I enjoy reading almost as much as writing and want to enjoy the stories we put together--and not become distracted by constant grammatical mistakes or the frequent use of historically inaccurate terminology and slang. I will provide my own samples in return.

- Genres of Interest -

Historical
Regency Era ***
Victorian Era
American Civil War Era
Roaring Twenties
1940s Old Hollywood Glamour

Fandom
The Phantom of the Opera ***
Gone With the Wind
Pride & Prejudice ***

My list is, admittedly, rather short but these are the only genres I am interested in at the moment. You are welcome to suggest others, but chances are good that I will decline. Asterisks indicate strong preference.

- Samples & Contact Info -

The alacrity with which Mr. Harcourt Downs had removed from London in search of such a suitable situation as can reasonably be acquired on such short notice in a neighborhood of ---shire in the vicinity of a certain Estate surprised no one more than his sisters and immediate friends. Before the announcement of his engagement to a Miss Terrell, heretofore unknown to them all, not a soul among Mr. Downs' intimate acquaintance had been aware that any preference had secured itself in his mind or any warmth of feeling in his heart. Mr. Downs had always tended toward a kind of aloofness with members of the fairer sex and had never before shown himself to be in the power of any such creature--let alone a girl of the country. But the depth of his apparent emotion had quickly convinced all among his friends that the point was decided and he would not be swayed (though none but his own eldest sister might have made the attempt).

And so it was that Fletcher Hall--a large and stately home not a mile's walk from Beechbury Estate--had let with little ceremony, and Mr. Downs and his friends had journeyed down from London to stay there as soon as the house could be made ready for them. Among their party were his two sisters--the elder, Miss Rebecca Downs, and the younger, Miss Helen Downs--and several gentlemen, the most prominent of which (and by far, Mr. Downs' closest friend) was Mr. Benedict Balfour. The initial tour of the house had elicited all the praise Mr. Downs had expected and he found himself well satisfied with all, save the state of the library (the limited selection of which he only grieved on behalf of Mr. Balfour, who was a great reader). The London  party swiftly settled into a busy routine and became acquainted with a number of the leading families of the neighborhood within the first week, by whose eager invitations they attended several dinners.

This evening was the first they had all spent in the home of Mr. Terrell (though they had received him at Fletcher Hall the very morning after they had arrived), and was obviously the one event of the week to which Mr. Downs had looked the most forward. The eagerness by which he attended Miss Terrell and the obvious pride he had felt when at last offering introductions between herself and the esteemed members of his party were enough to stifle any apprehensions the Misses Downs or his friends may have fostered for the match. Mr. Downs was entirely in love. There could be no mistaking the warmth of his expression as he looked upon the face of his betrothed. Whether Miss Terrell was as eager for the match was not quite so apparent, but it was assumed by all that she could very well see the prudence of it and that was enough. Mr. Downs was a kind man of good standing, and in possession of a suitable fortune and six thousand a year, in addition to being quite handsome (arguably the most important quality a man can possess).

His friend, Mr. Balfour was even more handsome and even more wealthy--he was the master of a large estate near Hartsford, owned a grand home in town, and, in addition to possessing vast wealth, could reasonably expect around ten thousand a year. These inducements would have to be enough, however, for his manners were decidedly disagreeable in unfamiliar company. Mr. Balfour had spent the whole of the evening so far lurking in a corner of the room near Miss Downs and Miss Helen, his mouth a thin, grim line and his brow furrowed in what one could only assume was dissatisfaction. Miss Downs could be seen to frequently turn to him and offer some comment upon the room or the people in attendance, to which he would merely nod or offer some brief, clipped reply. If he was rude, Miss Downs seemed not to notice for she had an obvious preference for the man and would often attempt to find ways into his good graces. Mr. Balfour was a favorite of Miss Helen's, too, though she often went unnoticed in favor of her older, more elegant sister. The younger Miss Downs' ill-advised teasing of her friend could be heard from across the room as she attempted to coerce him into dancing with her in spite of the glares and hints of the elder sister.

When the Misses Southernden were announced, the eyes of all the party turned to meet them--Mr. Downs', with eagerness; Miss Downs', with apprehension; Miss Helen Downs', with curiosity; and Mr. Balfour's, with great (if hidden) anxiety. The eldest of the two sisters was decidedly handsome and he could practically feel the jealousy rolling off Miss Downs like steam as the attention of all turned upon them and away from Mr. Downs' elegant older sibling. Miss Downs maintained her composure, however, and offered Mr. Balfour a tight smile and the observation that "country girls all seem to have a healthy stoutness about them." Miss Helen overheard and was forced to stifle a giggle as she moved forward swiftly to greet the newcomers and be introduced. 

Miss Helen, eight years her sister's junior (seven, her brother's), was a good if silly girl of sixteen. She was bright and cheerful and, what was more, warm and friendly in sharp contrast with Miss Rebecca's tendency toward cold aloofness to those she deemed 'lesser.' Helen had no such qualms and had not yet developed her sister's discernment when it came to rank and standing in society. She was eager to befriend all and especially other young women, and this eagerness was readily apparent as she presented herself before Miss Terrell, Miss Southerden, and Miss Abigail, "Louisa! You must introduce me to your friends at once! I must commission them to help me convince the rest of the party to dance!" Her address of her future sister-in-law was astonishingly informal, but she had decided that it was warranted in light of her brother's choice to marry. She gave both Miss Lilley and Miss Abigail her most winning smile and bobbed a curtsy to both.

Mr. Balfour and Miss Downs stood back to await introductions, but neither with Helen's eagerness. Miss Downs was not enthusiastic about the prospect of competition (for she had seen the way her companion's eyes had immediately found Miss Lilley's face), and Mr. Balfour could hardly bare the thought of having to maintain conversation, however brief, with still more strangers.

The Golden Canary was a fixture on the Sunset Strip, with its high, white stucco facade shaped in the tiered, art deco style that had been so popular in the 1920’s when it was built. A flashing, red and black sign was mounted over the big, glass double doors that led into the lobby, a fluttering bird perched over the word ‘canary,’ which was written in a graceful script. Starting at 5:00PM sharp, the sign blazed into life, alerting passerby that the business was open to guests--but only certain guests. The club was a fairly exclusive one, patronized by only Hollywood’s finest. They would roll up the circular drive that curled around the front of the establishment, slide out of their fine, new cars, and walk the red carpet that led inside with many a tuxedoed host to greet them.

The lobby, also styled in art deco, was large and circular with a glittering tile floor and a raised, dome-shaped ceiling that culminated in a crystal chandelier. The walls were papered in a dark, dusty purple patterned with golden leaves and geometric lines, and framed by dark wood paneling. A matching dark wood host stand sat to one side of the lobby, near the large double doors that led into the dining room. Two hostesses stood behind the stand dressed in identical black and white dresses, their hair similarly styled with large curls perched on top of their heads and smaller curls tumbling down the sides and onto their shoulders. They smiled brilliantly to each guest who entered and cheerfully led them to their tables--for each regular guest had a preferred table to which they always expected to be led.

The dining room was large and oval-shaped. The floor, dark wood like the paneling around the outer walls, was tiered like that of a theater with rows of circular booths lining each level. Large columns rose up from the booths at intervals and were styled to look like royal palm trees, their graceful fronds obscuring the domed ceiling above in the atmospheric dimness. The booths themselves were plush, padded with dusty purple cushions and lit by small lamp fixtures with dusty purple shades which provided low, warm, yellow light in the otherwise darkened room. Directly across from the entryway, situated at the lowest point of the room spread a rounded stage from which rows of smaller tables radiated like a sun. The space around the stage could be cleared to create a dancefloor, but tonight it provided additional seating for the influx of guests in attendance.

This evening was one of a handful over which the Canary had managed to book the ever-popular Ella Fitzgerald to perform. It was a fairly momentous occasion, for the Canary had never before allowed a colored singer to perform on their stage. Many among their regulars were great fans of Miss Fitzgerald and had submitted reservations with the express purpose of hearing her sing that very evening. The Canary anticipated an even larger turn-out than their usual packed Friday nights and had planned accordingly with the extra tables and seating, as well as additional hostesses and waiters, many of whom could be seen hurrying about from table to table delivering drinks from the bar in the back of the room.

Miss Fitzgerald was not scheduled to perform until 7:00PM that evening, but already the dining room was filled with expectant guests. At one booth, situated near the front at the edge of the dancefloor and a little to the left of the stage, sat one man in particular. Even while seated he seemed a little taller than average, and was dressed in a grey suit of Italian make which accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. The swarthy tint of his skin and his coal-black hair, eyebrows, and close-clipped mustache all hinted at his father’s Southern European heritage. The only remnant of his Irish mother were the piercing, wide-set, grey eyes that flickered with a dangerous intelligence in the dimness. Something about his eyes spoke of knowledge and awareness well beyond his thirty-five years.

He was “Mr. Castillo” to those who knew him a little, “Cain” to those who knew him well, and “Tony” only to anyone who wished to receive an icy glare and a sharp word. He was also the founder and owner of Castillo Films, his production company. It was his fame as a leading actor in the mid to late 1930s that had propelled the success of his company, but he maintained his fame even as a producer--it was clear by his table’s proximity to the stage, and by the fact that his table was populated by several doting young women, all several years younger than he.

Cain was often surrounded by beautiful women, despite the common knowledge that he had been married these eight years past to the famed ballerina, Evelyn Miller. His courtship and subsequent engagement to the elegant Miss Miller had been a passionate, whirlwind affair, and highly publicized when it came to light in the winter of 1939. They had met at the premier of one of his most popular films and he had fallen hard and fast for her serious, emerald eyes. It had been obvious in the way he had paraded her about to various events and clubs after their marriage in 1940 that he was exceedingly proud of his catch, and she always seemed just as charmed and enamored of him. It was only after he returned from the War--discharged in 1943 to recover from the serious injuries he had sustained, and a changed man--that their seemingly perfect marriage appeared to fall to pieces around them. By the summer of 1944 and merely a year after his return, it was known that they were separated and had been ever since. Rumors, however, suggested that Cain was still very much in love with his estranged wife.

As it was, he seemed content to let his glamorous female guests (whose names he had not bothered to remember) chatter amongst themselves, not interested enough to join in their conversation. The girls seemed to know instinctively not to try to engage their host in small talk lest they receive a condescending glance or remark, and were well aware that they served only one purpose in being present at Mr. Castillo’s table--ornamentation.

Cain, himself, was content simply to listen to the jazz band that played on stage in the interlude, lazily smoking a cigarette and sipping from a highball glass filled with whiskey. His expression was relatively relaxed and it would have been difficult for a casual observer to say what went on inside his head.

It was difficult to say just what had possessed him to accept Frank Kennedy’s invitation the day before. They’d been friendly enough acquaintances in the few months since they’d begun doing business with one another, but Rhett had certainly not anticipated being invited along to a barbecue. Frank Kennedy seemed amiable enough if a bit fussy and Rhett couldn’t quite say that he liked the man, but his appeal had seemed surprisingly heartfelt--perhaps Mr. Kennedy had been feeling particularly warm toward him since he had chosen to conduct business with Kennedy’s General Store rather than its competitors. It had been something of an unusual decision, of course; Kennedy’s General Store was considerably smaller than similar businesses and, while Rhett was sure to make money off of the endeavor, he would have made substantially more elsewhere. But Rhett Butler had always been an advocate for the underdog, and he felt that Mr. Kennedy was an honest man regardless of his annoying habits.

So perhaps he had accepted out of some desire to maintain a friendly relationship with a new business partner? It seemed unlikely. Rhett had lived in the South his entire life until about twelve years ago and had attended all manner of Southern get-togethers--and barbecues had always been his least favorite. Why would he subject himself to an afternoon of standing around in the hot Georgia sun when he could endear himself to Mr. Kennedy just as easily by offering the man a pair of solid gold cufflinks or an engraved silver snuff box? No, he may have liked Mr. Kennedy well enough, but certainly not enough to endure a barbecue.

Perhaps it had been the comment Mr. Kennedy had made in passing about all of the ‘beautiful Southern girls’ the Wilkes were likely to invite. Now there was an inducement if Rhett had ever heard one--there were few things in life he enjoyed more than the company of beautiful women and he’d surely be willing to suffer through a Summer day out on the front lawn of some plantation if it meant he’d get to flirt with some spirited young Southern belles. Rhett had always had a way with women; they rarely trusted him on the outset but he’d have them eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the first conversation. They would never admit it, but all of these well-bred women yearned for a bit of danger, and Rhett Butler had that to offer in spades. He would be the first to admit that he was a bit of a rake, but he meant no real harm by any of it. He only dealt with grown women and they were certainly old enough and mature enough to make their own decisions about who they did or didn’t go riding alone with well into the evening hours..

Rhett leaned casually against the curling bannister at the foot of the grand staircase in the foyer of Twelve Oaks, lazily watching as carriages rolled up the long, oak-lined driveway in front of the plantation home. He’d ridden all the way from Atlanta with Frank Kennedy that morning and had been one of the first people to arrive. The Wilkeses seemed like nice enough people, warm and generous but somewhat unsettlingly placid in their mannerisms. Their daughters weren’t particularly pretty much to Rhett’s dismay, though the younger of the two, Honey, seemed a bit more lively than her siblings. She had eagerly offered Rhett a tour of the plantation and had made a few awkward attempts at flirtation here and there, though Rhett did nothing to encourage her. Her obvious desperation did not interest him in the slightest and he simply maintained a polite indifference over the course of their interactions until other guests began to arrive and Honey turned her attention elsewhere. He watched as she stood at her father’s side now, eagerly greeting each guest as they arrived upon her doorstep and couldn’t help but give a sort of half grin. It seemed to be the dearest wish of every young woman to be considered both beautiful and charming, and yet so few of them ever seemed to achieve the two together. How many specimens of true Southern beauty and charm had he witnessed in the course of his life? Perhaps five…

‘...Six.’

As he had stood there watching the tide of guests arriving, one carriage in particular seemed to stand out to him for it contained a certain woman. Objectively, he had to admit that she was not particularly pretty--her jaw was just a bit too square, her eyes just a bit too close together--but there was something about her expressions and mannerisms that tricked the mind into believing that she was utterly gorgeous. He watched as she descended from her father’s carriage and instantly launched into greeting every individual with whom she came into contact, paying particular attention to the young men. The boys in question all seemed smitten by her and eagerly accepted her admonishments regarding their attentions paid to other young women. In the time it had taken her to walk up the short flight of steps on the front porch and into the foyer, she’d managed to amass a following of about ten individuals all hanging off her ever word. 

Rhett could not help but be both impressed and thoroughly amused by the scene. Shifting slightly but still leaning against the bannister, he watched as the young woman made her way across the room toward the staircase. When she noticed him at last, the smile briefly fading from her lips, he could barely contain the mirth that glistened in his dark eyes as he gave her the smuggest smirk he could muster. Thoroughly unimpressed, she had turned away and continued about her business of rounding up every eligible man on the property. Rhett watched as one young buck approached her, timid as a lamb, and received such attention as if he was not merely a boy but a prince. What was the girl up to anyway? Did she have some rival among the crowd whom she was eager to spite? Nothing could account for such audacity, surely.

Again she seemed to notice him watching her and again he grinned at her. Everyone else on the plantation might have been ensnared by her charms but he knew better. She was as cunning as they come by his estimation, and she had some end by which charming an army of young men was the means. He watched as she ascended the stairs and then, relinquishing the bannister, meandered his way toward the back of the house where the majority of the other guests were beginning to congregate.

It was evident from the distinct lack of unfamiliar faces that the very rich and very single man whose coming had been foretold them had yet to make his appearance. Elizabeth found that she was too caught up in the general atmosphere of the assembly to care very much if such a man appeared to them at all, but she could tell by the very slight frown her sister wore that Jane was the mildest degree of disappointed. It had been assumed, of course, that such a man was destined for Jane, the most beautiful and amiable of all the Bennet offspring. Jane, who had been spurned once before, no doubt hoped to some extent that this was true though she would never have said as much. Beautiful though she was, it had always been clear to her closest sister that the young woman was deeply insecure and hid her profound self-doubt behind a sweet, placid exterior that no word or look ever seemed capable of penetrating.

Elizabeth, to her credit, was second only to Jane in appearance and had a much more outgoing personality which now made her quite popular with a number of young men. She had never been made an offer of marriage, of course, but had, for the past half hour, all the dance partners she could possibly want. It was over the shoulder of one such partner that she noticed the faintly dismayed expression upon her dearest sister’s countenance. As the dance came to a close, Elizabeth curtsied and smiled to her partner, then quickly moved to where Jane stood to one side of the dance floor. With her usual grin, Elizabeth took her sister’s arm and tugged gently at her hand, “If every man present does not fall in love with you by the end of the night, I am no judge of beauty.”

Jane smiled and nodded to her, before looking away quickly, “..or men.” They laughed to each other before turning their attention to their younger sisters, Kitty and Lydia, both of whom had managed to make it the entire evening thus far without missing a single dance. This fact surprised neither of the eldest Bennets and Elizabeth, in particular, felt that usual pang of apprehension whenever she saw her two younger siblings flirting somewhat recklessly as they were often wont to do.

Her brow furrowed then unfurrowed as her gaze swept the room. There were many men present, but none handsome enough to tempt her.

When there seemed to be a lull in the dancing and music, Elizabeth turned her head to see that more guests had arrived--but guests a great deal more refined than Hertfordshire had seen in some time. Charlotte, who had sidled over some moments before the disturbance of the Bingleys’ arrival, was able to point out each member of the party in turn, “The handsome one with the cheerful smile is Mr. Bingley, the lady is his sister, Miss Bingley---” Elizabeth could not help but smile at the distinguishing characteristics of each person in Mr. Bingley’s party, and before Charlotte could continue, interjected, “--and the man with the quizzical brow?” Charlotte peered over her friend’s shoulder to the doorway where the group stood and furrowed her own brow very slightly, “That would be Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley’s dearest friend.”

Elizabeth studied each of the Bingleys in turn before turning her gaze upon the friend. Mr. Darcy was quite handsome, and would have been doubly so had he deigned to smile. His dark features and classically handsome face reminded Elizabeth very much of what she imagined the heroes in her books must look like. She would have happily engaged him in conversation had he seemed even the smallest bit receptive to it, but she found that he was entirely unapproachable so she merely stood to one side and watched her sister take a dance with the very handsome Mr. Bingley. The addition of more ladies had created a dearth of gentleman dancers, so Elizabeth had to content herself merely to watch.

This did not prevent her from overhearing what passed between Mr. Bingley and his friend when the former came away from the dance floor to rest. Darcy, it seemed, outright refused to dance with anyone despite Bingley’s insistence that he must. Bingley, to his credit, lavished praise upon all present, and even went so far as to praise her when his friend insisted that Bingley had danced with the only handsome girl in the room. Elizabeth, upon hearing this praise, turned her gaze casually upon the dance floor but kept her attention squarely upon the pair of gentleman for she was curious what Darcy’s response would be. 

That response was much less than she had hoped. “Tolerable” was the best compliment she could hope for from the handsome but very dismal gentleman. Her lips tightened ever so slightly but otherwise she made no outward expression that she had heard the insult. When Bingley had at last been coaxed back onto the dancefloor, Elizabeth found it beyond herself not to engage Darcy at least a little. With as much poise and grace as she could muster, she turned and walked past him, making the briefest amount of eye contact to communicate to him that she had, in fact, heard his speech. Looking away from him in the next moment, she sought Charlotte’s side once more, eager to dull the sting of Darcy’s comments.

If any of this sounds appealing to you, please do not hesitate to reach out!

Fable#9103
nomdebloom1@gmail.com
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