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Kaithe Dame Member
Vylinius of Varathia
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Bio
I like writing about strange people put into uncomfortable situations that force them to think creatively to overcome them. Brain worms currently include the Yakuza franchise, The Last Sovereign JRPG, Dragon Age, WH40K, Disco Elysium, and True Detective. Writing sample down below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
Most Recent Posts
I go by Kaithe and am partial to Discord for OC chatter and Google Documents for actual writing. I lean into 3+ paragraphs per post and am an advanced-novella writer. Writing sample below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
This is a requesting for a GM. I'm an advanced-novella writer inclined to Discord for at least OC, and whatever platform my partner would like for actual writing.
What is a god, what is a man?
Men, elves, and orcs had tried to answer this question and had come to different answers. Where most Elves looked to the stars and claimed them as their own, and where the humans and orcs claimed the same gods struggled against one another in a civil war- Corin and Korgus had come the closest.
Pike, gun, and trade.
-=-
I've got a few ideas for this that largely stem from what people would like to see in a RP from this setting; I was playing at the idea for a time of an enslaved person that was liberated by the Jaddari and being brought up by the Legion- that would be a highly politicized, military-esq story about governance and warfare and so on. Alternatively I had a much more swashbuckling adventure idea concerning the rise of Corinism and the supernatural events that arise from it, the political upheavel, and the stories an adventurer (party?) goes on amidst the Blood Deluge.
WIP Idea; an elf spawnling of evil, corrupt gods is adopted by DORFs in the Serpentshire and turns out to be more of a conniving, kind-hearted weasel ala Saul Goodman. Mischevious, capitalistic, and more dwarf-y than any of their adopted kin. This half-eldritch twink or bulky femme lady (because I like those archetypes) manages to become the leader of an insignificant DORF hold and lead them to success through his underhanded, sly altruism.
Continuation of that idea; the ((CHOSEN ONE)) of some corrupted god accidentally hooking up with Corin's motley crew and being their financer and logistical support because they're good with money.
Those are my working ideas. I'll likely be adding more as they come to my brain. The character(s) I play are of a wide variety of sexual orientation and gender.
docs.google.com/document/d/1lqyAAPIJh…
This is a requesting for a GM. I'm an advanced-novella writer inclined to Discord for at least OC, and whatever platform my partner would like for actual writing.
What is a god, what is a man?
Men, elves, and orcs had tried to answer this question and had come to different answers. Where most Elves looked to the stars and claimed them as their own, and where the humans and orcs claimed the same gods struggled against one another in a civil war- Corin and Korgus had come the closest.
Pike, gun, and trade.
-=-
I've got a few ideas for this that largely stem from what people would like to see in a RP from this setting; I was playing at the idea for a time of an enslaved person that was liberated by the Jaddari and being brought up by the Legion- that would be a highly politicized, military-esq story about governance and warfare and so on. Alternatively I had a much more swashbuckling adventure idea concerning the rise of Corinism and the supernatural events that arise from it, the political upheavel, and the stories an adventurer (party?) goes on amidst the Blood Deluge.
WIP Idea; an elf spawnling of evil, corrupt gods is adopted by DORFs in the Serpentshire and turns out to be more of a conniving, kind-hearted weasel ala Saul Goodman. Mischevious, capitalistic, and more dwarf-y than any of their adopted kin. This half-eldritch twink or bulky femme lady (because I like those archetypes) manages to become the leader of an insignificant DORF hold and lead them to success through his underhanded, sly altruism.
Continuation of that idea; the ((CHOSEN ONE)) of some corrupted god accidentally hooking up with Corin's motley crew and being their financer and logistical support because they're good with money.
Those are my working ideas. I'll likely be adding more as they come to my brain. The character(s) I play are of a wide variety of sexual orientation and gender.
Bump.
Bump.
Self-indulgent conquered Westeros plot as part of a greater AU rewriting of ASOAIF of mine. I go by Kaithe and am partial to Discord for OC chatter and Google Documents for actual writing. I lean into 4-5 paragraphs per post and am an advanced-novella writer.
BRAZEN GLORY
The Seventh Day of the Fifth Moon, 300 AC
Joffrey had not taken well to the terms he’d been forced to agree to absentia. Forced and locked into his room, his ministers and Lords had signed away his kingdom, stripping him of his kingly income and titles and leaving him a very pampered brat whose livelihood rested on the generosity of the man who now sat in his throne. The man who was, by treaty, was hours away from humiliating him even more deeply. If the barbarian from across the sea had sought to drag her family’s legacy through the muck and he’d done a proper job of it- even going as far as to claim its matriarch as his own.
Lights and chattering from the city below kept the keep’s walls and windows bright with activity. Shadows crept up its walls, servants and soldiers lazily spilling into the windows to watch the festivities below, oftentimes side by side, gently holding one another, or even more adventurous things when they thought they could be quiet enough. This was the true black sheep amongst them, an occupation that invited dancing and magical lights brightening the sky, leading to yet more cheering and drunks crowding the streets and alleys as annoyed, foreign guards escorted the most rowdy safely home. Soldiers were everywhere. They grew in number each day, across the entire continent in fact, erecting watchtowers and refilling castles and hammering down new fences and repairing roads so that yet more soldiers could join them. Cersei was no general, and yet she and everyone else could tell that, no matter how jovial they were, no matter how much liquor and food their Emperor imported for them, they were a knelt people. Broken.
Happily, joyfully broken. All for peace.
Because they hadn’t paid the price for that peace.
Sylvan swore against any suggestion of Targaryen blood in his veins no matter what his violet eyes argued. He sits slack in her throne, the startling darkness nearly hiding him from her. Her boy could never go unseen in a room through the sheer weight of his presence, where his replacement looked as if he could disappear into any lowborn smithy. His easy, sweet farmer boy’s grin promises larceny, while his finely threaded, bright clothes rest easy upon his small and unassuming frame. Her husband's skin stands out even amongst his advisors and mercenaries; of them all, his skin is the darkest, making his eyes all the brighter.
How had such a small man been accepted by the brutes that brought them so low?
“Cersei,” he greets pleasantly, shifting in the swirling oily shadows. “I do apologize for holding your lad inside during the festival. He wouldn’t be safe.”
Sweet and sincere, and yet his smile only grows more amused with each moment that passes.
“I heard he didn’t take well to the news. Literally. I was down the hallway.”
BRAZEN GLORY
The Seventh Day of the Fifth Moon, 300 AC
Joffrey had not taken well to the terms he’d been forced to agree to absentia. Forced and locked into his room, his ministers and Lords had signed away his kingdom, stripping him of his kingly income and titles and leaving him a very pampered brat whose livelihood rested on the generosity of the man who now sat in his throne. The man who was, by treaty, was hours away from humiliating him even more deeply. If the barbarian from across the sea had sought to drag her family’s legacy through the muck and he’d done a proper job of it- even going as far as to claim its matriarch as his own.
Lights and chattering from the city below kept the keep’s walls and windows bright with activity. Shadows crept up its walls, servants and soldiers lazily spilling into the windows to watch the festivities below, oftentimes side by side, gently holding one another, or even more adventurous things when they thought they could be quiet enough. This was the true black sheep amongst them, an occupation that invited dancing and magical lights brightening the sky, leading to yet more cheering and drunks crowding the streets and alleys as annoyed, foreign guards escorted the most rowdy safely home. Soldiers were everywhere. They grew in number each day, across the entire continent in fact, erecting watchtowers and refilling castles and hammering down new fences and repairing roads so that yet more soldiers could join them. Cersei was no general, and yet she and everyone else could tell that, no matter how jovial they were, no matter how much liquor and food their Emperor imported for them, they were a knelt people. Broken.
Happily, joyfully broken. All for peace.
Because they hadn’t paid the price for that peace.
Sylvan swore against any suggestion of Targaryen blood in his veins no matter what his violet eyes argued. He sits slack in her throne, the startling darkness nearly hiding him from her. Her boy could never go unseen in a room through the sheer weight of his presence, where his replacement looked as if he could disappear into any lowborn smithy. His easy, sweet farmer boy’s grin promises larceny, while his finely threaded, bright clothes rest easy upon his small and unassuming frame. Her husband's skin stands out even amongst his advisors and mercenaries; of them all, his skin is the darkest, making his eyes all the brighter.
How had such a small man been accepted by the brutes that brought them so low?
“Cersei,” he greets pleasantly, shifting in the swirling oily shadows. “I do apologize for holding your lad inside during the festival. He wouldn’t be safe.”
Sweet and sincere, and yet his smile only grows more amused with each moment that passes.
“I heard he didn’t take well to the news. Literally. I was down the hallway.”
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
In
BLACKS, GREEN,- GREYS? (House of Dragons / Novel-inspired)
→
2 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
A WEAVER HAS MOCKED THEIR FUTURE IN INK, spelling out its doom from front to back, top to bottom, with a flowing black tatau in a tongue none recognize. When first she saw it, their Lord's wife called it beautiful - and commanded them to keep it hidden for their own good.
Hidden or no, the doom written on their skin cannot be avoided. Sylvan's fate will haunt them all the way to the end, and it shall be the death of them. It begins with hazy memories of their past.
You already know how this ends.
This is a request for a GM who views themselves as a skilled writer who shares my penchant for statecraft, warfare, economics, so on. These will be core to the story and, much like Sylvan's future, cannot be evaded.
-=-
The Iron Born have returned to the old and iron ways.
Laboring men return to see empty husks where their childhood homes once stood, their mothers, wives, and children dragged onto longships. Women kneel in desolate silence on the tussled shores, and children bury whoever or whatever they can find. The Dance of the Dragons is over, and yet Dalton Greyjoy wipes himself with every letter compelling him into the King's Peace. The Westerlands can only tremble and despair as their Paramount's family lies in ruin, a generation slaughtered, and their armies and fleet crushed.
All is not lost.
The Red Kraken had reaved as far as Ghis, and he'd brought with him all manner of strange things, breathing and otherwise. In the bowels of his ship had been a child brought back from the ruins, one whose hair entangled with autumn leaves rooted in their head and with all too familiar, violet eyes. Their skin was pathed with pitch black, oily paint depicting their future, though none could bear to learn the script. Their fate will turn here, and with them, Westeros'.
('Where the RP begins' ideas below. Not married to any of them, feel free to make completely new suggestions. Will likely add them as I think of them.)
SCENARIO 1: Sylvan is rescued from slavery by the punitive armies sent to the Iron Isles and finds himself and many other thralls taken in by the Lannisters?
SCENARIO 2: Even earlier than that, while the Iron Born are still at the height of their power, Sylvan and other rowers are saved from the bowels of captured longships- similar to SCENARIO 1, only much earlier and during a darker time.
-=-
I'm a novella writer who appreciates colorful, verbose styles of writing. I don't care what gender my partner is. Additional details will be discussed with people who're interested. I go by Kaithe and write upwards of 4-5 paragraphs a post barring dialogue-heavy scenes and/or action. I'm partial to Discord for OC and Google Documents for actual writing. Writing sample below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1JKv6Uy-3L…
Hidden or no, the doom written on their skin cannot be avoided. Sylvan's fate will haunt them all the way to the end, and it shall be the death of them. It begins with hazy memories of their past.
You already know how this ends.
This is a request for a GM who views themselves as a skilled writer who shares my penchant for statecraft, warfare, economics, so on. These will be core to the story and, much like Sylvan's future, cannot be evaded.
-=-
"The women of the west prefer men of iron to cowardly lions*, it would seem, for they jump into* the sea and plead with us to take them."
The Iron Born have returned to the old and iron ways.
Laboring men return to see empty husks where their childhood homes once stood, their mothers, wives, and children dragged onto longships. Women kneel in desolate silence on the tussled shores, and children bury whoever or whatever they can find. The Dance of the Dragons is over, and yet Dalton Greyjoy wipes himself with every letter compelling him into the King's Peace. The Westerlands can only tremble and despair as their Paramount's family lies in ruin, a generation slaughtered, and their armies and fleet crushed.
All is not lost.
The Red Kraken had reaved as far as Ghis, and he'd brought with him all manner of strange things, breathing and otherwise. In the bowels of his ship had been a child brought back from the ruins, one whose hair entangled with autumn leaves rooted in their head and with all too familiar, violet eyes. Their skin was pathed with pitch black, oily paint depicting their future, though none could bear to learn the script. Their fate will turn here, and with them, Westeros'.
('Where the RP begins' ideas below. Not married to any of them, feel free to make completely new suggestions. Will likely add them as I think of them.)
SCENARIO 1: Sylvan is rescued from slavery by the punitive armies sent to the Iron Isles and finds himself and many other thralls taken in by the Lannisters?
SCENARIO 2: Even earlier than that, while the Iron Born are still at the height of their power, Sylvan and other rowers are saved from the bowels of captured longships- similar to SCENARIO 1, only much earlier and during a darker time.
-=-
I'm a novella writer who appreciates colorful, verbose styles of writing. I don't care what gender my partner is. Additional details will be discussed with people who're interested. I go by Kaithe and write upwards of 4-5 paragraphs a post barring dialogue-heavy scenes and/or action. I'm partial to Discord for OC and Google Documents for actual writing. Writing sample below.
docs.google.com/document/d/1JKv6Uy-3L…
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