Quiet yet thoughtful.
GeekFactor
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Lady of Complexity
STATUS: You can't respond to every criticism with "RACIST!" This has become the modern boy crying wolf. At some point, you have to face truth. 2 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 1 yr ago
- Joined: 7 yrs ago
- Posts: 176 (0.07 / day)
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- GeekFactor 7 yrs ago
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2 yrs ago
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You can't respond to every criticism with "RACIST!" This has become the modern boy crying wolf. At some point, you have to face truth.
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2 yrs ago
"She smiled up at the stranger, heedless of the splattered droplets that decorated her front like the freckles sprinkled over her pale cheeks."
1
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3 yrs ago
Bring it on, 2022. Fear won't be mind-killing me just yet.
3
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5 yrs ago
RIP Christopher Tolkien. Sailed into the West to meet his father at last.
2
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5 yrs ago
Happy 127th birthday to Professor Tolkien!
Bio
I'm not the sort to talk about myself unprompted, so this section will be scant. I vastly prefer one-on-one (1x1) or small group RP, as big groups and lots of chatter tend to overwhelm me. I prefer RP within medieval fantasy settings that are not too fanciful (think LOTR/GoT).
[b]“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It's a way of understanding it.”
― Lloyd Alexander
[b]“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It's a way of understanding it.”
― Lloyd Alexander
Most Recent Posts
(I just noticed this thread so this was written in a hurry, so it's not my best. Good luck to everyone who enters!)
The coming of dawn was as a soft whisper in the deep of the night. The air was still and did not stir with any sound, as all the world held its breath through the final hour of darkness. When the beginnings of a pale hue began in the eastern sky, it came with such gentle subtlety that none took notice. It was not until the first blush of coral dared to peek above the hills that the slumbering earth stirred back to life, one soul at a time.
In the Frost Hills to the north, a tawny owl turned her head from one side to the other, stretching open her great eyes that shone like orbs of obsidian. The ancient conifer in which she nested was crusted with snow, surrounding her with glistening adornment in the growing light. Here, the air was quieter than in any other place in the world, as the merciless cold froze everything into a perfect hush before the sun returned to revive the forest once again. She gazed towards the horizon and saw naught but the glimmering white boughs of pine and fir. Beneath them, tiny creatures would soon be stirring, and she would hunt once more ere the sun broke over the mountains.
Far to the east, a scrub doe stepped forth from her thicket deep within the Whispering Wood. Sparrow and finch could not withhold their song from the burgeoning morning, for the sun had already risen here. But the space beneath the towering trees was yet full of a misty, green shadow. Cloven hooves stepped daintily over moss and root as she sought the cool refreshment of a bubbling stream that churned in a deep cut between the lichen-spotted trunks of graceful aspen and birch. Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to follow the wandering path of the water, for she knew that she would find acorns and mushrooms in plenty at the grove of oak trees just beyond the gentle slope where the creek dropped and danced over a tiered fall, and spread out into the forest’s lowlands.
Silence was an unknown thing in the lush labyrinth of the Twisted Grove. No one could recall when the southern-most island upon which it grew had first risen from the salty sea, nor how so many varied creatures had come to call it their home. Beaches of black-sand embraced it on all sides, and in its center, the land rose sharply, culminating in an asymmetrical tower of shining, dark-grey stone. All else had been taken over and consumed by the Grove, a relentless tangle of vines and wide-trunked trees laden with exotic fruits. Even in the last throes of night, frogs cheeped from their hiding places, and brightly colored crickets sang in staccato bursts. It was here that the velvet-furred hunter prowled, a shadow amongst shadows. Golden, slitted eyes peered up between the gnarled branches of a strangling fig tree. Lumpy shapes were silhouetted against the softly brightening sky; sleeping monkeys that were full of fruit and slow of senses. His breakfast would come easy today.
Despite the open, rolling land of the Bare Fells in the west, it was last to receive the blessing of the sun’s light. In a wide, brown valley, a stallion stood with his head erect, inspecting the landscape while a small herd of stocky, short-legged horses dozed behind him. Here, the wind never ceased, for there were no trees to buffer its restless wandering. The thick tussocks would provide sustenance for his family, but it was a life of endless movement; grazing from one shallow dell to the next, keeping near the thin, scattered bits of water that survived the inconsolable gusts of dry wind.
And still the sun rose on its great arc, steady and relentless, uncaring of the toils and trials of the endless, tiny souls that thrived and struggled beneath its life-giving illumination.
The coming of dawn was as a soft whisper in the deep of the night. The air was still and did not stir with any sound, as all the world held its breath through the final hour of darkness. When the beginnings of a pale hue began in the eastern sky, it came with such gentle subtlety that none took notice. It was not until the first blush of coral dared to peek above the hills that the slumbering earth stirred back to life, one soul at a time.
In the Frost Hills to the north, a tawny owl turned her head from one side to the other, stretching open her great eyes that shone like orbs of obsidian. The ancient conifer in which she nested was crusted with snow, surrounding her with glistening adornment in the growing light. Here, the air was quieter than in any other place in the world, as the merciless cold froze everything into a perfect hush before the sun returned to revive the forest once again. She gazed towards the horizon and saw naught but the glimmering white boughs of pine and fir. Beneath them, tiny creatures would soon be stirring, and she would hunt once more ere the sun broke over the mountains.
Far to the east, a scrub doe stepped forth from her thicket deep within the Whispering Wood. Sparrow and finch could not withhold their song from the burgeoning morning, for the sun had already risen here. But the space beneath the towering trees was yet full of a misty, green shadow. Cloven hooves stepped daintily over moss and root as she sought the cool refreshment of a bubbling stream that churned in a deep cut between the lichen-spotted trunks of graceful aspen and birch. Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to follow the wandering path of the water, for she knew that she would find acorns and mushrooms in plenty at the grove of oak trees just beyond the gentle slope where the creek dropped and danced over a tiered fall, and spread out into the forest’s lowlands.
Silence was an unknown thing in the lush labyrinth of the Twisted Grove. No one could recall when the southern-most island upon which it grew had first risen from the salty sea, nor how so many varied creatures had come to call it their home. Beaches of black-sand embraced it on all sides, and in its center, the land rose sharply, culminating in an asymmetrical tower of shining, dark-grey stone. All else had been taken over and consumed by the Grove, a relentless tangle of vines and wide-trunked trees laden with exotic fruits. Even in the last throes of night, frogs cheeped from their hiding places, and brightly colored crickets sang in staccato bursts. It was here that the velvet-furred hunter prowled, a shadow amongst shadows. Golden, slitted eyes peered up between the gnarled branches of a strangling fig tree. Lumpy shapes were silhouetted against the softly brightening sky; sleeping monkeys that were full of fruit and slow of senses. His breakfast would come easy today.
Despite the open, rolling land of the Bare Fells in the west, it was last to receive the blessing of the sun’s light. In a wide, brown valley, a stallion stood with his head erect, inspecting the landscape while a small herd of stocky, short-legged horses dozed behind him. Here, the wind never ceased, for there were no trees to buffer its restless wandering. The thick tussocks would provide sustenance for his family, but it was a life of endless movement; grazing from one shallow dell to the next, keeping near the thin, scattered bits of water that survived the inconsolable gusts of dry wind.
And still the sun rose on its great arc, steady and relentless, uncaring of the toils and trials of the endless, tiny souls that thrived and struggled beneath its life-giving illumination.
Hello and welcome!
Interested!! I'd prefer a more realistic setting, BUT still interested.
Hello and welcome! Love the avatar :)
Hey I think I know who this guy is
Pooooooo :D
Welcome! I found your rambling intro to be quite delightful.
Best wishes in finding those RPP's that you seek.
For me, any cliche or overdone trope doesn't reside in the idea or character type but in the Rper. Pretty much everything have been over done in this world. There really isn't anything original. That being said, on the flip side, everything is original if it is your first time doing it. So sure, people could have done the same thing a thousand times but if it is the first time you have done it then it is new and fresh.
What I cannot stand is when someone breaks free or tries to break free from what they usually do in Rp and then fall back into the same rut as before. The D.S. or the Default Self. This is you rping as you would react or what you think would be funny or hilarious at the time and not staying true to the original character concept or where you wanted the character to evolve. As a GM who over sees many Rp's, much of whom have Rpers that are in more than one I host, I see this a lot. The characters will start off great and then over time I see them melt and meld into the D.S. so no matter the Rp, no matter the character, it just feels as if I am reading the same thing from the same character and I could just copy and paste 1 post to another Rp and no one would notice the difference because now there is no true difference beyond the surface.
That is the "cliche" I can't stand. When we lose the character and fade back away to the D.S.
This is a very good point. I have to watch myself with this, as I imagine we all do. If I'm tired, distracted, or just weary of the plot/character, it's easy to fall into this trap. If I sense I'm on the verge of doing this, that's my cue to take a break from the story and refocus.
To each, their own, but even fabulous writing cannot save a painfully overdone cliche for me. I've seen some people who are brilliant writers, perfect grammar, extensive vocabulary, well-formed sentences and paragraphs, sensible pacing, etc. But the character, and therefore the story, that they want to put out into the world still falls flat. Because it takes more than *mechanics* to make a good story. You can sense when a writer has no real connection to their character, or their reader, or to themselves. You can sense when a writer lacks heart and depth and feeling, and is merely placing the proper pieces in the proper order in the hopes of gaining admiration and acceptance. It's hard to describe exactly what I mean here, and I apologize, because I'm probably failing in conveying what I want to say. To try and summarize; a fantastically-written trope is just as unappealing to me as a great character idea that's poorly executed. I don't want either one.
Besides that, one a cliche goes 'beyond the skeleton', it stops being a cliche.
Besides that, one a cliche goes 'beyond the skeleton', it stops being a cliche.
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